Tales of a Northern Nomad

A whirl of Vice

2009-06-22T22:44:00.001+01:00

So, we’re still in Colombia according to my blog...oops!

Actually in Bolivia now (yeah, like two months later), but, hmm, well...suspension of disbelief n’ all that, eh, folks?

Well, so the next stop was Medellin, once the drugs capital of Colombia, infamous for being the brutal harem of cocaine, violence and corruption, the domain of Pablo Escobar and his notorious drugs cartel...they would have it that it is now a prosperous city, boasting an excellent overland metro system which I utilised to its full capacity by buying only two tickets and riding the entire length and breadth of the city for about £1 (excellent value and entertainment...for it even straddles the surrounding mountainous residential areas stacked upon the hillsides within which the city is encapsulated via cable car! No extra cost. Splendid. My Norwegian companion, Murray, did not have a camera, through choice not as a result of a Flynnarific style misdemeanour, which is often the fate of many a fellow traveller (R.I.P. Casio Exilim (1 and 2)...and Nikon...and Angkor Wat photos...sob). But, playing around the marvellously voluptuous and often entertaining sculptures of the famous Colombian artist, Fernando Botero (born in the city in 1932) in the main plaza in his name and searching for decent ice-cream was all very well, but my goal was to hit the capital, Bogota, for the weekend.

Who would assist me in revealing the immense night of ravedom? Santiago and friends! Hurrah! A bunch of loaded students that didn’t have anything better to do at the beginning of the Easter holidays than show their resident couch surfer the sights and delights of their city. Nice. One. Arriving at the apartment at around midnight to find a few boys and girls slightly loaded on ‘Fire Water’ (horrendous diluted version of zambucca...eugh!), I emerged out of the lift into the plush-as penthouse suite, tastefully decorated, with the kids playing MGMT, wearing skinny jeans and discussing further education at London School of Economics...the discourse enlightened me to a few interesting facts (courtesy of Santiago, being an economics student and all), such as Colombia’s raking in the Genie Index being one of the highest in the world (i.e. the discrepancy between the country’s affluent and poorest peoples is most polarised), of which the top 1% of Colombia’s elite earn 40% of the GDP. Insane. And, do not fret...the penthouse primary earner was an architect. So I was told anyways...

Cruising the sights of Bogota with a slightly sensitive headed Santiago, we ventured out onto the TransMilenio, the super rapid bus system that has its own special lanes dedicated to...a metro with buses but explained through the most complicated system of diagrams, colour codes and assumed tacit knowledge (which I, being there less than 24 hours, cannot claim to smuggle). I love the London Underground tube map...name of guy that created underground...Legend. As it was Saturday and we were planning a rather massive night out, we sort of thought about getting me some suitable shoes for bopping until the sunrise, but gave up, checked out the main plaza with its grand government edificios, as well as the 100 or so displaced peoples that had been moved from the countryside due to the guerrilla and drugs war, and pretty much dumped in the capital, ‘for a better standard of living’, although camping in the equivalent of Parliament square didn’t reveal itself to appear too liberating. We scooted around La Candelaria, beautiful cobbled streets and white stone buildings, with a browse around the ‘Donación Botero Museo, and a saunter around Santiago’s university (the architect of the new space-age engineering department being a chap I shared a room with later in Colombia!)

Diego, Santiago’s pal and fellow Couchsurfing host, together with two British CSers in tow, converged with us in a dingy little bar in Bogota’s Camden, Parque Santander, and got cracking on some ‘Aquila’ (or, for the more beer connoisseur) and ‘Club Colombia’ cerveza (beer) and got what was to prove to be a heavily fuelled evening kick-started!

Rustled up some grub at Santiago’s pad, then out. ‘The End’ was to be the venue for the night’s revelries. Indeed, if this name is familiar to some of you London peeps, that is because it is actually a party that is promoted by the very same dudes that sorted out the nights at the club of the same name in London before it was closed (earlier this year...probably because there was a ban on a-symmetrical haircuts and the trendies quit going). The curfew in Bogota is 3am. But, this underground, dirty gig was situated on the top floor of a 38 storey building, under the facade of a private party in a private apartment...that just so happened to have a massive dance floor space and other rooms with copious amounts of charged beverages. Bouncing on the door were militia armed with somewhat substantial firearms, all of which looked about 17 years old (the chaps, not the guns). Hustled in with the cool kids of the night, the luxury lift swiftly delivered us to the pinnacle, where the lights of the capital lacerated the landscape that oozed out from our epicentre, indulging us in an alveoli-like weave of gold leaf. It glowed all the more avidly as the night progressed, as the waves of electronica fused with the energies roused amongst the densely packed mass of flesh, oscillating between sentiments of all encompassing euphoria and complete immersion in movement. The DJ was intense, and before we knew it, the orb of warmth was penetrating into our molecular mentalities and tempting us back into the sanctity of a peaceful Sunday morning.

Well, after dancing around the apartment complex’s gardens under the caresses of the morning rays as I couldn’t sleep (well, the security guards just left me to it), our Sunday dawdled into meeting the other guys into town, watching street story tellers entertaining the masses with funny anecdotes, juggling in the square and people watching. Ell, Ked and I (the Brits) cooked a good traditional dinner for our hosts...a solid vegetable stir-fry and noodles. Yummy. Typical dish at which Diego was astonished by the little amount of oil and salt that we utilised in its preparation, for many a dish in Colombia is born of the deep fat fryer! Haha. Arepas are fried maize cakes, that are often sold with a solid lump of South American cheese (which is really mild, sort of like goat’s cheese and is basically the only style of queso in the whole of Latin America!) or fried eggs. If you are interested, the main structure of a Colombian meal is arroz con pollo, which is simply rice with roasted chicken, with some kidney beans and some fried plantain (a savour type banana)...and maybe a slice of tomato is you are lucky!! Hehe. Usually, at lunch time, you could get an almuerzo set lunch for $1.50, which consisted of a drink, a sopa (soup) and some variation of the chicken&rice plato...cheaper than chips!!

So, after wowing the boys with our culinary skills (it was actually really good!) we had Venezuelan hot chocolate and watched ‘Apololysa’, a 1980s Colombian produced film about a bunch of wily young drug users in the epoch of deep guerrilla conflict, police corruption, kidnapping and extortion; dark humour with an interesting insight into youth culture...with interesting translation of Colombian street slang!!

A good sleep and a road trip to the famous Salt Cathedral was the order of the next day! After the somewhat scenic route enforced due to closed roads and typical South American directions...”yeah, yeah, it is straight down there...” Why do they not just admit they haven’t got a bloody clue rather than send us off in the wrong direction??! Well, we arrived at Zipaquirá, the home of the famous underground cathedral, set amongst the original salt mines. The first cathedral was created and dedicated to Nuestra Señora del Rosario (patron saint of miners) in 1954, but was declared unsafe, with a new, minimalist salt cathedral opening in 1995. It had incredible carvings in the salt stone, including an impressive (or somewhat surreal) Stations of the Cross, captured in symbolic uses of the rock, including some sculptures of the crucifix being 2m high and over 4 tonnes in weight. The effect of the lighting created a very austere and mysterious atmosphere, whilst being as deep at 150m below the surface, standing in an enormous space where mass is held, was somewhat unnerving. But, a chomp on a chocolate miner in the ‘deepest coffee shop in the world’ soon quelled any misapprehension, and a decidedly dubious 3-D video of the evolution and development of the salt mine network, presented by some robot ensured the evaporation of any religious sentimentality (I had to keep moving my red-green specs off my face to decipher what was 3-D or not...).

My final day in the capital was certainly devoid of cultural activities...unless if imbibing hot chocolate and watching DVDs in your pyjamas all day counts as a cultural enlightenment (I was with a Colombian in Colombia after all)! YAY! One of the simple joys of being in someone’s house instead of a hostel is that you can just make a brew when you want, bum around and generally not worry about too much - including wearing your pjs to the supermarket for more stodgy supplies. Santiago was a wealth of info on the old world of film and music...which I am somewhat annoyingly ignorant. “Flynn, have you seen...” usually receives the enlightened response of, “I think I saw a poster for that on the Underground...” or, “Maybe I heard of it, but...” Such a new media culture vulture, I cannot profess to be. But, if you care, we watched a wicked pair of films, one called “Before Sunset”, set in Paris and in real time (the realism and issues dealt with in the context of a somewhat soppy but endearingly romantic scenario), whilst the other was a low budget British production set in Ireland, “Once” captures the power of how something beautiful can be created and captured in such a short space of time...and is basically about a bunch of musicians and the sound track in actually pretty good (‘Once also being the name of the groupo)!
So, Bogota was a whirl of indulgence, euphoria, sloth and sleep-deprivation with a couple of really interesting and intelligent Colombians, with a half-hearted dash of cultural enlightenment, but still, the true travelling backpacker knowledge seeker has yet to emerge...this Couchsurfing is detrimental to elevating oneself from the state of philistine in the high-brow sense of museums and galleries (although we did venture into a few of those), but is certainly rich at a deeper level of experience with regards to local knowledge, perspectives and relationships. You can easily visit cities and observe the cultural heritage, but nothing is superior to the experience of the present, which, after all, feeds into the trajectory of a history and a culture.

Hedonist of the Floating World

2009-04-28T00:51:00.002+01:00

How does literature have the incredible ability to really resonate with the time and space within which you reside at the time of reading? It is almost as though books find you, rather than you stumbling upon them. Whilst in Asia, ‘The Portrait of Dorian Grey’ really connected with my feelings of transition, of metamorphosis and generally becoming less innocent to the world around me, although I cannot admit to debauchery in opium dens, unfortunately. Then there was ‘The Life of Pi’, which again was about a journey of self-discovery and challenge but more on a level of basic survival and understanding the barbarity human nature, as opposed to the superficial considerations of appearance and the world’s value of youthfulness and superficial beauty. ‘On the Road’, was utterly devoured in the mission of a week across the wide of China, the semantics goading me on to make it to Nanjing for a taste of a Chinese variant on a perceived normality...”go, go, go”. This time, it was Kazuo Ishiguro that subtly mirrored sentiments and considerations as a bounded through Colombia...’Artist of the Floating World’ worked with the concepts of the world at night, a place of fun and indulgence, but was fleeting, an phenomena that artists and poets were to capture in their work, to provide the revellers with a fragment of the urethral utopia that had fled by the morn. It is perhaps for this very reason that many photos do not incorporate the acts and experiences of hedonism that only presence can absorb and grow euphoric on to an almost tangible degree. Yes, Colombia. The forbidden frutas de Latin America, a country of contradiction, controversy and the creator of a profligate. It was not that there was a conscious choice to engage in licentiousness, but it crept up upon you, engulfed and indulged you. A grant for a liberating licentious licence for Colombia, no? It began in Cartagena, a beautiful seaside city that has UNESCO heritage status, and rightly so because it is bloomin’ gorgeous. After a couple of free dives with my lovely dive master, I hopped aboard a bus west bound, condemned to near arctic conditions for a whole four hours. Yes, Colombians have a masochistic streak, a self-flagellation that resulted in me developing a somewhat snotty nose. In short, they have the air-conditioning on so high, it is essential to board the bus with hats, jumpers, and certainly, socks, if one is to make it through. They bring BLANKETS!! It is over 25°C outside the auto bus; they will not need fleecy, gaudy printed insulation for miles except in the icy interior of the bus. WHY?? It is forbidden to query the bus driver, a breaking of sensitive taboo. Maybe a cultural exchange ought to be introduced so Colombians can see what an English winter’s eve is like and then they might change their minds. Ahhhh-chhhooooo!! Adopted by a young police man, I was kindly escorted to la casa (the house) of mi amiga, Ervine in Cartagena. What a nice chap. He navigated the local buses that through me down the aisle as they swung around 90° corners at high speed, slinging the returning school children from the open door at their leisure. On arriving in Boca Grande, the area of Ervine, he marched in and introduced himself as the police, whilst I sheepishly looked on behind at the astonished faces of Erv and two other couch surfers. I meekly said it was OK, and that I for some unknown reason had been adopted and thanked my young (he looked about `17) whilst ushering out into the elevator. “WHO IS ERVINE?” “What is Couch Surfing?” Your thoughts leap from the page before I’ve even written it. Response to first question...Erv is French-Tahitian lady who lives in Cartagena, is a translator for a company in America, a dive master and super, funky, cool. How do I know her? Well, I met her for the first time with my authoritarian amigo. Yet, we had chatted through the cosmic medium of ‘Couch Surfing’. Ooooohhhhh...aaaaahhhhh. Yes, the CS Project. The cult of budget travel and cultural emersion on a whole new level. I have already explained the concept of Couch Surfing, but, after Couchsurfing my way pretty much through the whole of Colombia, I have become immersed to a greater degree than simply “Oh, Couch Surfing. Yeah, you stay at someone’s house for free and it is cool.” If I could do my dissertation again, I would do it on Couch Surfing...it is so interesting! Basically, it seems that every city in South America has CS hosts, especially in Colombia! Under the Umbrella of ‘Couch Surfing’, there are groups that people belong to, much like Facebook, and cities often have their own group where people post messages and things, so it is a whole social network...people in cities know fellow Couch Surfer hosts...and there is competition between hosts regarding who has the most number of friends, who hosts the most (i.e. who attracts the most number of travellers that want to stay with them)...there are politics and antagonism between hosts as some are so keen that they organise weekly ‘Couch Surfing Meetings’! haha! There are AMBASSADORS for some cities...AMBASSADORS! These are the people that utterly BUM Couch Surfing, are supposed to be the best hosts in the world, giving you tours, entertaining you and enriching you in all things associated with their city. And that is just the actual activities...then there is the whole psychology of what is actually online...you have a profile. This, of course is a contrived element, again, echoing the sentiments I feel about Facebook. The self-sculpting of image, of the presentation of one’s self, the ‘me’ one wishes to portray. Whilst writing my profile, I felt somewhat in a conundrum, especially as I had only had an account for two minutes and was still naive to the ferocity of passion for CS, the types of people using it and the depths into which people embroiled themselves into it...it was simply a tool of economy and cultural curiosity initially...and it still is. What was I to write about, erm, me? What does one write without appearing to be an utter loser (or, rather, in my case, conceal this very fact)? “Yeah, I am Flynn and I am fookin' funny and well cool and you totally wanna let me sleep at your house ‘cos I’m ace! Top banana! Woop! Woop!” or “So, I like to travel. I like to meet people. I like table. I love...lamp.” I mean, honestly. Well, whatever I have written, which, may I add, was under duress because I had to write something of no-one would host me, and added 3 dubious photos (obviously), and then the messages came flooding in. “Hi Flynn, I see that are in Colombia. Let me know when you’re in Bogota and I can show you around, go for coffee or whatever. Bye! Adrian.” “Hello Flynn. I see that you are in Cartagena. I am here on my holidays from Boston and was wondering if you would like to meet up. Cheers, Tenor.” Utterly comedic was a query from a photographer in Bogota: “Are you in Bogota?” My reply: “Yes.” Final response: “Good”. Hahahahaha...he actually replied! I think the winning random message was from a chap in India: “Hello Flynn. I really like to met new persons from other cultures and countries. Please let me no when you are in Juipur and we can go for a coffe.Bye, Tomal.” Bye! Bye! Hahaha, it cracks me up. And obviously, why not pop over to another continent a few thousand miles away for coffee? I’m an amiable person. And I have a sari. Hoho. Apparently, however, after consultation with fellow (male) couchsurfers, this is not a normal state of affairs, this random messaging. And no, there are no ‘blue’ photographic materials on my profile, as, I believe, would be a less than motivating means of self-advertisement. I have no assets. E-hem. So, now you know a little bit more about the world CS. This was a world I was to inhabit for nearly three weeks continually in Colombia. And so, we return to Ervine in Cartagena. After clearing up the policeman escorting incident, we sat and chatted whilst I checked out her freshly applied paintwork of brilliant orange, but, as it was eleven at night; it didn’t quite have the potency to be revealed the following morning. I shot-gunned the hammock that hung along the 3m front window, and was utterly enamoured with the stunning view of the Caribbean ocean that stretched out but 50m from our 12th floor apartment. This was the beginning of a weeklong habitation of Erv’s gloriously simple yet bright and buzzing place. I accompanied Erv to the gym after stealing her trainers and hit the aerobics class. ¡Buenos Dios! The aerobics instructor was a flame retardant fag or the highest degree (no offence to non-heterosexuals, but...) and had most certainly missed his way to Broadway and Flash dance. Aerobics? Erv and I were prancing around at the back of the class as he executed sharp and fluid pirouettes, sweeping arm gestures and accurately preformed swivels whilst the congregation of middle aged ladies clad in abhorrently figure-hugging fuchsia velour stumbled about the token gesture of a ‘step’, the full length mirror mocking recording the preposterous failings of health, age and coordination. I ran on the running machine for half an hour after that, simply because I wanted to sweat a bit and make donning a pair of Reeboks worth the effort. Ah! Gym in Colombia? Where are the drug cartels? The poverty stricken images of Asia...the children scampering with but a rag to conceal their modesty? Nope, not in Cartagena at least. Gym in the morning and then off into the city centre to check out what all this UNESCO heritage shizzle was all about. And my, my, what a beautiful ‘Old Town’. ‘El Centro’ is the walled ciudad Antigua, a fabric of intricately woven streets, awash with brightly coloured walls, majestic colonial buildings and quaint, tranquil spaces...you just need to know where to look. In was founded in 1533, and grew to be one of the most significant ports in the newly colonised world, a throbbing artery for the shipping of treasures back to Spain. For you little history boffs, a little tale. Our very own Sir Francis Drake himself managed to capture the practically impenetrable walled city with a crew of 1,300 strong in 1586, yet were defeated later again by Spaniards. Just think, could have been speaking English here! Shame, eh? Wonder what Colombia would be like as an English speaking country...probably very different to what it is now, hmm? After fleeing the sunny tapestry of old, I was a wandering the area of Getsemani when a young chico peered at me from above his sunglasses. “I know you...” Yes, we had met but four days earlier whist drunken in a club in Santa Marta. You know me, I had vague wisps of recollections whirling in my mind, but these were put aside when he enquired as to whether I would like to come and see their boat. Ahh, soon I was sat aboard the ‘Moonraker’, a gleaming white sail boat, anchored amongst a series of highly shiny and expensive yacht, sipping a beer and chatting to four rather delicious Argentineans! Not too shabby, not too shabby. They are planning to sail around the Caribbean, up past Panama, Honduras, up to the States, and then back round past the islands for six months. Didn’t manage to get an invitation for the long haul, but introductions to the decks, bunkers, and seamen were splendid all the same. Chiva. Chiva bus. What be this thing? It is the organised fun of party buses...ron ron ron! Davido (Swiss) and Michael (Dutch), fellow couchsurfers fell victim to an obscure power cut that affected only Erv’s apartment, and as the dusk drew in and Erv was nowhere to be found, I devised the only solution plausible as we squinted amongst the final sunny juice drops of illumination at around 6pm; “Anyone fancy a rum?” A hearty agreement ensued, and soon, a whole crew of Europeans (we doubled up on the Dutch and the Swiss), Erv and I were merrily guzzling down Colombian rum in the dim glows of Michael’s ‘Lucky Candle’. Shame really, as this was the first time he’s actually cracked it out in 3 months of travelling, so, erm, not that lucky really. But, Chiva time soon came, and the remnants of our bottle were soon replaced by a whole fresh batch aboard the party bus. Six of us squeezed into the pew behind the band (one member of which I am sure was imaginatively utilising a cheese grater in his melody making...) and soon began to become the somewhat raucous aisle of fun-seekers! The music was pumping and the shimmer of Cartagena’s aquatic and antiquarian skyline slurred past as we chanted along to the Caribbean beats...”Mas ron! Mas ron!” The Chiva diva delivered, both rum to us and us to the great fortified wall of the Old Town...and then to a club and then...well. All in the name of Ron, eh? This was Thursday night. Friday morning found me rough and anti-Ron...the b*****d. But, guess who was to replace the now fragile Europeans, but my very dearest, primero Couch Buddy, Andreas (CS alter ego, ‘Snuggler’)! He sauntered into Erv’s place, not knowing that I was already there...unawares that I was hiding behind the bedroom door whilst Erv nonchalantly mentioned another person for London had been there...fortunately for him, he didn’t say anything too slanderous, so I popped out and surprised him. Think he was about to say something bad, but... Returning to the CS interest. Snuggler is perhaps the perfect example of a ‘keen bean, Couchsurfing machine.’ He is a lovely, intelligent, good looking chap, but. But. It took me a little while to notice, but Snuggler is always, ALWAYS on his computer. He is the king of CS, and is in fact that one that immersed me so whole-heartedly into the political depths of this abstract/tangible/globalised community. For e, Snuggler, when he is not in immediate reach of his Vaio, is entertaining, witty and fun, and also very astute. However, if the wireless status is one of ‘Connected’, his thoughts default to the comp. What is he doing on his laptop that requires such dedicated attention? He is organising Couchsurfing meetings...YES! Contemplating what his next destination is and organising with CS ambassadors, meetings for CS hosts in that city and any other random surfer that happens to be in the vicinity! He is talking to people who he has hosted in London at his place (he has done that a lot), to people that he was hosted by in Latin America, and messaging prospective new hosts...but what about the now? It is almost as though he is living his life vicariously though CS, yet not actually involving himself with the immediate present. He is also a further example of a type of person that uses CS for a somewhat specific purpose. Recall, that this is the man that claimed he knew why I’d joined CS within 5 minutes of meeting me; “Well, it’s because you’re a desperate northerner, isn’t it?” I. Rest. My. Case. And so, Friday night, my night of alcohol abhorrence, was CS Meeting night. Yay. Ppppfffff. So, along I went, just to be sociable, when in all honestly I felt like I’d eaten the toilet brush and only very transient and non-communicable thoughts stumbled through my foggy mind. Consequently, I was utilised in a conversation between Erv and a French chappie as a beer-bottle-holder-3rd wheel-ornament. Suited me fine, as their sumptuous French syllables spread over me like a luxury cheese on freshly baked baguette. Soon, Mr. Sausscine, the self-proclaimed French Sausage was interrogating me about the shiny lights of Blackpool and he coxed me somewhat outta me drinking facilitator role into something a little more lively. (He later sent me this CS link, come on t´pool! http://www.couchsurfing.com/people/chris_england/ Lesson to be learnt. Never agree to make lunch for a French man. It only ends in heartache. Since Mr. Sam the French man should have been staying at Erv’s but there hadn’t been enough space the day he arrived in Cartagena, he was to come on Saturday and we would make a nice lunch, with him bringing the wine. Dependable French man. So, whilst sitting by the pool of Erv’s apartment (beginning to understand why I was there a week?), we drank Chilean and Argentinean vino until Erv returned from Scuba antics. And we prepared muchly in the kitchen, for it was Erv’s ‘Bye-bye party’. Yes, Erv was off to the US for her job and was leaving us as sole proprietors of her apartment! Hurrah! Sam, Andreas and I was obviously trust worthy enough for Erv to let us loose whilst she went away...how cool?? See, Couchsurfing is cool...! And so, the party on Saturday night was lubricated with a Sam Special Punch (that consisted of rum, freshly squeezed limes and sugar – punchy!), lobster, dips and antipastas. Yummy. But, after many a RumPunch and a migration to Cartagena’s nightlife scene, it became apparent that Mr. French was a bit keen. Oops. What is one to say when faced with proclamations of the deepest of crushes at 4 in the morning after wiggling about with a ton o’ ron writhing around your insides without causing offence? Hmm. So, Colombia’s next first for me...someone allegedly falling in love with one after, erm, a day? Well, to be fair, it was probably two in total. Way too intense for me! So, we made everything better with another trip on the Chiva bus, resulting in me awaking with a severely sore head (again), but also an amusing collection of articles in my handbag the next morning, including cans of beer, maracas and panama hats, amongst other things! Hehehe! Then, the perfect cure for a hangover, a paddle in a random mud filled volcano. Splendid. Funny thing is, Mr. French is actually one of the best friends of a girl I met in Laos last year, and she actually sent me a message saying he was in Cartagena on the day I met him! Weird, eh? A small world, I noted. A small world for the wandering bourgeoisie, another observed. Perhaps. (This is as long as a university essay! Sorry). Colombia the bed of indefinite hedonism, saturated with vices and the floating hammock of the world? Up until here at least! CHIVA!

The Conundrum of Colombia

2009-04-17T02:46:00.003+01:00

A bus-hussle and a couple of hours later we arrived in fairly late into Taganga, a beautiful little fishing village on the Caribbean. A few drinks with a couple of lovely Ozzie girls and a trio of Israelis and it felt great to be on the backpacker trail which simply did not exist in Venezuela. Yet, missioning it half way across a country in just less than six days certainly took it out of me a smidge, so languishing on the beach and eating fresh watermelon was the order of the day. It is simply wonderful how salubrious snacks are always so readily available, with fresh smoothes made on demand...mango, pineapple, passion fruit, star fruits, YUM! After the alarming void of fruit and veggies in Venezuela that generated my paranoia of developing scurvy, it was simply divine, especially as you slurp whilst watching the sunset from a moored fishing boat, whilst the locals get stoned behind you. Ha.

Getting into the swing of things, Ben, from Israel, agreed to cook an Israeli dish, shaksuka, if I sewed the hole in his faithful traveller shorts. Ahh, my grandma would have been proud, although she said she didn’t like the look of the poor lad from my photos. Hahahahaha. ‘La Garaje’ was party bar of choice for this fine Wednesday, and I was soon being swept off my feet Colombian stylee by a local chappie. The movements are not as one would often expect of Latin America, for the main movement is with the hips and it is a slow, controlled small step, which, of course, is wiggled out at intense personal proximity...the concept of the personal space, ‘Smartie Tube’ is nowhere to be seen. It felt really quite restrictive not being able to whizz my arms around in my personal crazy dance style, but pretty darn cool!

Princess Gina and Edwin were the loveliest Colombians, christening me ‘Flannie’ and generally being wonderful. I stayed at Divanga, a lovely place run by a couple of French, and would certainly recommend! A trip to ‘Parque Nacionale Tyrona’ was simply gorgeous. Hiking for just over a couple of hours and I’d pottered through thick vegetation, heard toucans hooting away and ambled along beautiful stretches of beach to arrive in the final campsite at Cabo, where I picked myself a pleasant looking hammock and then skipped off to the BEAUTIFUL beach. This is perhaps the nicest beach that I’ve since yet which is almost on a par with some of the Asian paradises. Which then got me a-thinking (no, don’t groan yet!). The culture in Asia is very conservative, appearing almost a-sexual in some instances and there is a great respect for their country, for women and generally is a very safe place to travel. There is an intense and unremitting curiosity and reverence to foreigners in less specifically touristic areas...in some places in Java for example, we couldn’t walk down the street more than 500m without someone asking for a photo with us! This is simply not the case in Latin America, or at least up to now. There is a vague interest and people do stare a little, but that is probably because I look like a hobo. I prefer to romanticise my tortoise appearance with my house on my back to that of a hippie in a spiritual transit of holistic development, looked upon with awe...but I merely look like a ridiculous gringo that needs to wash their feet and develop a sense of style rather rapidly.

There is an almost tangible sexual charge here, expressed through the music, the lifestyle of partying and really enjoying life, for everyone is always smiling and very open, as opposed to the serious nature of the Asian population. But only an hour ago that a less than spritely senora who engaged me in short converse commented, whilst I languished in the afternoon heat with Gabriel Marcia Marquez upon my lap, “Aqui es muy tranquil; no problemos.” Yes, after a month of travelling, she summed up my entire Colombian experience in a noncelant, yet insightful observation. The reason Colombia is so wonderful is simply because everything is so relaxed. Even the abundant – and highly armed – military, whose presence is always highly visible, are pleasant and smiling. As one gentleman said, “The law is so lax. This is why my country is so great; but it is also the reasons for its troubles.” He lived in the USA for half the year anyways, which he informed me after exclaiming, “Why are you here??”

So, what are the underlying causes for such distinctly different lifestyles, perspectives and attitudes to lifestyle? Perhaps it is the language? The melodious Espanola that crossed the Atlantic and infused a continent with Colonial rhythm and spirit, a fluid and fun language whose reach in this continent are not as deeply rooted as those of the long standing Asian tongues of Thai, Malay or Khmer, whose script is a indecipherable as hieroglyphics to the untrained eye, that have evolved and been nurtured in cultures that are still being to break out into the realm of a world outside their villages after hundreds or thousands of years of independent agrarianism and closedness to the greater global-political landscape. Or in a similar vein, it may be religion. Buddhism and animism reign in the East. Mantras of self-improvement, pacifism, respect and reincarnation, or simply a belief system of powerful external metaphysical forces placated with daily offerings of flowers, fruits and on occasion, Polo Mints. Everything is respected as the post-mortal ramifications can be great and every behaviour can contribute into the next realm of getting closer to Nirvana or not. Asia is not so very dangerous as one might suppose, although there are always the souls that care not a jot about the ‘after life’. Catholicism, however, being as dogmatic as it is, always allows for the opportunity for recompense and forgiveness through the sacrament of ‘Reconciliation’ or, more plainly, confession of one’s misdemeanours to the priest (the doorway to the Lord) and then absolution of one’s sins through the power of the God’s Servant. Devout Catholics, with all their iconography and ritual, in the end, believe that they are destined to get to Heaven, and if something goes wrong, God will understand, for did Jesus not sacrifice himself for all our doomed souls? Jajajaja (Spanish version of ‘hahaha’), what am I twittering on about? This is all very much speculation and very probably typed out diarrhoea (which, I am yet to suffer from on this little venture), but all thoughts would be very much welcome...’Let’s have a heated debate!’ Please note, I write ‘Catholic’ and not ‘Christian’, as many a Calvinist would most certainly beg to differ!! Not, however, am I using religion as a scope-goat for the narcotics trade, or course...

Annnnyyywwaaaysss, so I’m in Tangana, not in the Theology/Anthropology department getting a Third for my efforts. A splendidly cheap option for the old scuba, scuba, so after recommendation for a couple of lovely Auzzie ladies I met in Tyrona, who, very kindly, saved me from my continually impending doom once again as I ventured into another hole on a boulder heavy trek to see Pueblito, an archaeological site of Tyrona relics deeper into the park. Like the beetle scrambling on its back, I was wedged between a boulder and a big crevice, but escaped with a mere scabby knee...no head injuries to be reported. Scuba diving with Santiago, this super funny and cool guy was organised for Sunday afternoon and...dooo doo doo doooooo, my first night dive! “Don’t be getting drunk tonight”, said he, and I, in all sincere intent, ensured him nothing of the sort would transpire. Yeah, a couple of beers with the new house peeps won’t do me any harm...and then I was in another town called Santa Marta being bought Mojitos by three gay Colombians who had decided to adopt me for the evening...”Daaaarrrlllliinnnng! You are so gggrreeeeaaaatttt!” However, the true depth of their homosexuality was distinctly challenged for me when I turned to find the main protagonist was snogging the face off some Russian chick, whilst her boyfriend looked on none too chuffed!! “But she was gorgeous, daaaarrrrlllinng!!” Maybe it was her boyish, elfin hair cut. Jajajaja (Don’t you think that jajajaja just looks so funny?? Conjures up images of someone hocking up phlegm as they chuckle into their Arripa)!

So, Mothering Sunday and I awake with a stonking hangover...but all duties are successfully executed with little detection from the Western Front! Yes, mummy, I think I may have been a bit drunk when I spoke to you, but the chaos of being at aunty Neesie’s I think put you off the scent. Plying myself with water and stodge, I waddled to the dive centre, hoping Nitrogenarcosis wasn’t going to net my pescado self. In fact, the dive was wicked! We had a little underwater scooter that pulled you along like 007...zip zip weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Then off I went checking out the cool corals, seeing a few moray eels bare there fangs many a fishy wish. What was incredible was the fact that on average, a dive lasts about 35-40 minutes, maybe a bit longer if you are lucky, but I had a dive for about 1`hour 10 minutes!! As we emerged from our watery world, my fellow divers exclaimed their astonishment at our being so long...guess I just don’t breathe much, eh? THAT is what was cool about Santiago...we were there to dive and there was no rush for anything. Sandwiches on a nearby cliff-house and we watched the sun amble down to reach its place of slumber as we discussed the merits of a leisurely lifestyle verses the manic rat-race and the malleability of one’s perspective on life after travelling (Santiago did welcome me into his office of a beautiful ocean sunset, which is probably only the token desktop image of most people’s office space). Could we really survive on a farm, isolated...or as a fish-watcher? A who-what? Como? Yes, perhaps the most sought after occupation must be this. Envisage, a man’s body floating face down in the water. “Goodness, is he dead??!!” your internal monologue cries?? No, no. This chap is far from deceased. He is watching fish and you notice his little snorkel bobbing alongside his submerged cranium. All of a sudden, he flounders around, waving to the shore, and a flurry of tanned flesh is galvanised into action, wrenching and yanking on a long rope that slices into the ocean. What, ho?? They feverishly heave this lifeline, encapturing the school of fish that were unfortunate enough to meander into the netted hell and be ensnared as it comes up around them and dragging them to the dry, asphyxiating shores of land. Yes, what a job! To be a shrivelled prune that tells his mates when the grub is up, simply waiting. Tick tock, tick tock and all that Guinness philosophy. Bet he would like a pint of Guinness too...have to just put up with a Club Colombia servesa and agualianta (local spirit which is like a diluted version of Zambuka...ming!). So, taking all CVs for the new position of ‘Executive Fish Finding Assistant’. Basic rate + Commission. Starfish experience essential.

But the highlight of the day, or night rather, was mi primero noche bucear!! Seeing the realm of the sub nautical by night, illuminated with a mere flashlight was astounding. The moray eel of earlier was no longer simply peering out from a tubular within a glorious coral, but was slinking through the current. Lobster, a ravishing red radiated in the beam, his antenna flicking all about him, playing the multi-tier church organ before him. The giant Blowfish, at least 1.5m in length levitated in the glow as we looked on with bulging eyeballs. Under the heavy glare of three torches bearing down on a creature simultaneously simply generated a clarity and intensification of colour I’ve only seen in Bali, but the activity of these aquatic creatures was simply breath-taking. Yet, what made it for me (be aware, I am about to get very cliché!) was during our five minute safety stop, but 5 metres from the surface. Off, went out torch lights, and an immense, yet comfortable darkness engulfed us. Momentarily, there was nothing. No sound other than your darth-vader breathing and the pressure on the water against your wetsuit. Then it happened. Perhaps the singularly most profound and beautiful natural experiences that I have been privileged to encounter. Slowly, the water began to become saturated with tiny particles of light. I moved my arm in an arch and a cloud of glittering dust glistened in its wake. Awe swelled up and knotted in my throat whist I desperately tried to suppress the ........smile that was endangering me of imbibing salty water from the edges of my regulator mouth-piece. We danced underwater, twirling and swirling, swishing and swiping at the magical substance that created waves of enchanted phenomena, appearing to emanate from our very selves. Fish would flash by as though they were the shooting stars of the sea. As we floated up out of the cosmos of the ocean, the star saturated night perpetuated the magic. I. Was. Speechless. The power of luminescent plankton (for those who wish to know what the blinking ‘eck it was) and simply soaked all the power of words up and away from me. The night sky provided solace in its attempt to sustain the enchanting marvels of the deep. Ahh, but one of many hedonistic firsts that Colombia was to offer me, but none were as intensely astounding as this.

¡Viva Venezuela!

2009-03-27T23:26:00.002Z

“Hey, thanks for keeping an eye on my rucksack while I grabbed a cup of tea see as thought the Euston train is late.”
“No worries. Where is it you’re off to then?”
“Oh, well I’m going to South America, first stop Venezuela.”
“Wow. On your own? You must be very brave. I’ve only ever been abroad once to Ibiza.”

Waiting in Preston train station and how very lucky I am slaps me in the face and I’ve only left my cosy nest of Blackpool for half an hour. Eccentric as my brothers may feel I am, I know that it is simply opportunity, education and something innate that isn’t precisely quantifiable nor describable that differentiates me from this lovely lass from Burnley.

Well, why finish exploring this little old planet when you have a further few months free before one’s baptism of fire into the proverbial rat race? Why be content with what one has experienced when there is so much more to see, watch and enjoy beyond the realms of our great green lands? No need to be complacent or proud of the extensive range of cultures and peoples one has been lucky enough to encounter and engage with, for there are so very many more witness and learn from.

After a week of much merriment and mirth with a whole bunch of amazing people I simply have not seen enough of lately in t’bridge and Londres, including the amazing invitation to be bridesmaid for my beautiful college wifey along with a couple of the most wonderful girlies (Eek! JoJo is getting hitched...bloody Christians ;) ), I was off on another intrepid adventure. This time, however, this was solo. Nope, not a whiff of a little Samiad in sight, nor a flash of Klo’s botty to keep me company, but on my tod. Another day and another continent to encounter. Yes, Tuesday 11th March, 2009 was the beginning of another Flynnie Winnie venture, again to climes tropical, but of a decidedly different spirit of the Far East Asia of 2008. This five month trip to South and Central America is a fluid exploration of both the lands I travel and the limitations I myself will encounter as a single, solo chica.

So, to Gatwick airport for my flight to Porto, Portugal, where I had to curl up on a nice metal bench for the night whilst awaiting my flight to Caracas, the ‘Massively DANGEROUS’ capital of the oil rich and politically controversial Venezuela. Ahh, one would assume that things wouldn’t go amiss until I’d at least left safe old Europe, but whilst checking in, it seemed that since my return flight was not within the 90 allowance, I needed a visa. BUGGER. How, exactly, was I to obtain such a document whilst in the obscure suburbs of Portugal before my flight was scheduled to leave (i.e. in 1 hour 30m??). I wasn’t that was simple. So, by exchanging my GBP to Euros at an abysmal rate,(take some Euros when you have a connecting flight in the EU) I managed to log onto a computer and book a flight out of Venezuela to Quito, Ecuador, much to my displeasure...I couldn’t afford it nor did I want it! But, a print off was obtained and access to the flight went on smoothly, making it to the TAP Portugal flight in the nick of time. Phew! So, the 8 hour flight began and immediately my ideas of vegetarianism were challenged. Fish or chicken? I prepared myself for having to be somewhat lax with how stringent I would be to keep with my newly revived decision to not eat meat, but maybe it was somewhat foolish to do this before heading to the biggest meat-eating continent on the planet. So, I agreed with myself to avoid it where possible. Blah.

So, Caracas. Basically, since this was to be the first trip I’d ever made to an unknown place where I knew precisely zero people, I thought it would be nice to maybe set up some contacts before I went. And so it was....I became integrated into the social network of what is known as ‘Couch surfing’. Give you a very quick briefing. Couch surfing in a network of people that basically offer strangers a place to crash whilst they are on their travels or holidays or whatever. You have a profile, much like Facebook, and once you have set this up, you can search the city that you are staying in and look for people you think you’d like to stay with. You message back and forth to arrange, then you turn up and stay with them for a night or a few days or whatever you agree. It is utterly wicked!! Annnnnyyyywwaayyysss, back to the journey. I’d arranged to stay at the home of a nice chap called Leo, and he had very kindly enlightened me in our email converse that the city was massively dangerous, especially for a traveller, for, as one can well envisage, you are a bit of a sitting duck with your big pack on your back and all your worldly possessions in your immediate vicinity. Hmm. He also explained that there are currency controls in Venezuela, which didn’t really dawn on me properly until I landed...I knew that you could get a better rate on the ‘black market’ than from the official bank rate (the latter is 2.2 Bolivars to $1 USD, whereas you can get as much as 5.7Bolivares to $1 with the former...almost 3 times as much!), so I felt quite the knowledgeable traveller as I hustled with the dudes in the airport. Just wish I had brought more USDs as Venezuela is expensive if you are using the official rate!!

Adopted by a taxi man, I was ushered into the hot, dusty metropolis with fear gurgling in my gut and plans of escape and fantasises of self-defence scenarios whizzing round my little mind, when I was delivered to the lobby of a 5* hotel where I was to await my host. Sweet! Rather comic having a big old pack and near on two days of non-showering whilst the elite breeze by. Leo arrived and hilariously had assumed I was a bloke (such that I had avoided clarifying in emails – hurrah for the ambiguity that my name engenders!), and soon I was tucked up in an old banger with Leo’s centenary granny and her nurse and was scooted back to Leo’s abode. Ahh, the place was like something from Great Expectations, yet Miss Haversham was Venezuelan and had a little bit more of a shuffle that usually portrayed (granny was in fact called Sophia, which I thought quite becoming), yet the house was indeed a time warp. The colonial style of an educated family of French decent was apparent in the style and quality of furnishings, yet had sadly fallen into disrepair. I was in my element!! Poking (as politely as possible) around the extensive rooms of this dilapidated treasure trove revealed Singer sewing machines, antique hairpins, piles of paintings and boxes of disintegrating books...as well as some wonderful vintage dresses, all feeding into my imaginings of the days past when this was headed by an elegant women of high society. Certainly not what you’d get a snapshot of simply staying in a hostel! So you begin to see the delights of Couch surfing!

So, the next morn, after a traditional style breakfast of juice, arripas (a maize based bread cake thingy) stuffed with cheese (and ham if you like), scrambled egg and onion thingy and lots of tea or coffee, and I was whisked to the bus station to get my ‘Caracassss’ right outta there and was swiftly headed west-bound for Choroni and the beach, Puerto Colombia! (If you were wondering, for no apparent reason, my card was declined so never had to pay for that flight to Quito...hehehe). This little place was set back deep within the ‘Henri Pittier National Park’; a quiet fishing village composed of clusters of brightly coloured, single floor houses, populated with crispy uniformed school children and scatty little pooches. On the connecting bus from Maracay I was lucky enough to stumble across a couple of German lasses on their holidays from their volunteering placement in Bolivia – Marta and Anna. We chipped in for a room altogether which was very nice of them and soaked up the chilled atmosphere...but the place was so quiet and the beach was okay, but nothing overwhelming. Nice to just observe the fishermen loading up their catches of the day and then to munch on it!
But time is money in Venezuela, and the next day we’re back to civilisation and ready for couch surfing experience number two in Maracay! A mysteriously free, boy-racer stylee whizzing return to the city along the winding rounds of the park by night plonked us amongst Abby and her swimmer chums, who were excited to meet us...and then sprung on us that we were off to a party! Looking mightily rough, I, together with t’other travellers arrived in the open-air stairwell of our host’s aunty. A family birthday party! Ahh, little did we know what was to transpire! Politely chatting (or grinning inanely if you can’t speak Spanish, i.e. me) then out of no-where, a whole Mexican style band popped onto the metal stairwell and began to sing to the birthday lady! Wow! Elaborately embroider jackets, sombreros, trumpets, guitars, violins and hip-shaking a-plenty, the whole bunch of us was saturated with the sound of Latino grooves! The aunties were swaying away, particularly loving the old classics, whilst the kiddies wiggled their little bottoms, itching to break out into something more energetic then their restrained space allowed them. AAArrriiibbbbbaaaa!!! Bloody brilliant, to be sure! Then the rum began to flow and the birthday cake brought out, where we all contributed a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ in our native tongues, before the ‘the youngsters’ pumped up the beats in the tiny apartment living room space and grinded our way into the night! Ahh, “You are their new toy” the gorgeous Mariangel commented, as the drunker they got, the braver and more raunchy the dancing became! Goodness, these lads could show you English chappies a thing or two about shaking ya shimmy and my thighs certainly had an unforeseen work out! Beers, post-boogie arripas and chilling at Abby’s house ensued and everyone became more confident and forthcoming with their English...wicked for me, the ignorant little Brit. Ha. Miguel particularly enjoyed saying the ‘F’ word, especially since no-one else seemed to appreciate it. Hmm.

Then to part with the German ladies as they were to hitch a ride to their next destination, whilst I hopped aboard a bus to the UNESCO heritage site, Coro, always bearing west to the Colombian Border. This little place was really quaint, but so quiet! It was somewhat bemusing as I simply was unsure where exactly all the people were! It was founded in 1527, and the colonial area where I was staying was somewhat beautifully maintained, with a stunning lemon church and pretty little plazas that gleamed in the early morning sunlight. A trip to the peninsula just north of the town together with some French travellers was a little disappointing as it was the WINDEST beach in the world...I morphed into the Samiad after an hour! With sand in every orifice the bus was grabbed back and our collective disappointment with Venezuelan food and prices culminated in French style pasta, cheese and bread whipped up in our hostel. These guys were on a holiday for two weeks and were generally disappointed. The best of Venezuela, according to Lonely Planet and much tourist information was nothing more than mediocre according to these guys, and I think Couch surfing is what made Venezuela for me.

So no time to waste, I was off to Maracaibo, the largest city in the west of the country and another couch to be surfed! Paola was amazing! She shouted the cost of my taxi as I’d run out of cash (due to avoiding withdrawing dinario from el banco), sorted us out with a lovely lunch and generally was really sweet. It is here that I met my first Londoner (despite him being of Germanic-Persian descent), and we were to become border-buddies the following day. Andres and I were to venture across the no-man’s land between Venezuela and Colombia early on Tuesday morning, encountering a lovely flat tyre on the way and deeply depleted funds. Without him I would have certainly been screwed on the money front! After the continual police checks at what seemed every 500metres, we finally obtained our stamp, endured the privilege of paying to leave the blinking rubbish ridden country (the attitude to litter is quite outrageous...it is simply a case of dropping whatever wherever, which is a real shame. In some places, it looks as though a gust of wind has carried a bunch of trash from the rubbish heap and belched it across the landscape), and off into Colombia we ventured, passport in hand, ready for a kidnap....or not.

Pandas, Warriors, Ghouls and Brains.

2008-10-23T04:16:00.004+01:00

Ha! No sooner have I amputated my bruised and bumped person from the sympathetic and predictable sanctuary that was Carrie's sunny Nanjing flat, I was again a wisp of starch at the mercy of the Chinese rice cooker. No, Chengdu was my destination on my premier in-country flight, but t'was not to be the place of landing. Xi'an, some 4000km away from 'Du was where I was plonked, due to 'severe weather conditions' battering the runaways in Sichuan Province. Great. I am about to embark in a little Chinese project of (hopefully) a three month duration in a city that suffers from atrocious amounts of rain and storms. And, it won't let me in. I sleep in the purgatorial lounge clutching the complimentary 'Tuc-Tuc' biscuits, yet the moreish crunch soon inflicts a river-side dust eradicating all moisture from my mute-mouth. Dostoevsky lulls me into a tetchy slumber, until we're back on the airborne vehicle. A text message from He Qi Le, my Chinese colleague, greets me on the 4-hour delayed arrival with "Car has run out of petrol on motorway. Maybe you need to take taxi." Brilliant. Am I destined to do this? Clues from Fate appear to suggest a 'nope'.

But I make it and I meet my boss and am soon having dinner with him and the Singapore partner over a Mexican BBQ in their 5* hotel. Chengdu is grey and bleak. The sky is the same flat grey as the towering buildings that border the Technology Park within which the office and my apartment reside. And it appears to me that I'm in the middle of no-where! The city twinkles on the horizon and I can't even orientate myself in this business park due to being excessively chaperoned in driver lead cars to sample Chengdu hotpots and Babi II bars. Friday night and my mobile rattles into life. "Hiya Flynn. It’s Owen. I'm at the bus station." Owen being a traveller met in Yunnan province and he was now in Chengdu. Right. I only have my obscure address in Chinese and I haven't the faintest where I am. Or where he is for that matter. Great host, eh? "Erm, I'm in my pyjamas and sat in a flat that I've no clue of its precise location." Muttering something about an 'Incubation Park', I leave him to decide if he thinks he can make it or just shack up in one of the city's hostels. An hour later and he informs me he is at the entrance. "HOW??" I incredulously and massively impressed query. He didn't know. And so, the trials and tribulations of the traveller continue to be a mystery in their solution.

So, a taste of Chengdu was for the pair of us, since we were both new to the 'most second most livable city in China.' And, after a few days of non-traveller for me, it was National Chinese Holidays for a week...play time! No.1 Club was our host for party times, with a bottle of beer to lubricate the limbs, supplemented with tactical attachments to local imbibers for jovial cries of 'Gan ba!' to cheekily slurp a shot or two of whiskey or vodka and, of course, a generous refill. Not paid for us of course. A strange and very annoying system operates in Chinese bars and clubs. If you want to indulge in, say, a Vodka and lemonade or a G&T, you cannot simply have a measure in your glass and be done with it....no, no, no. One has to invest in an ENTIRE bottle! Unless you're in a group that is willing to all drink the same, what is one to do? Be a liquor leech in our case. By the end of the evening, I had obtained a collection of Chinese masks, a wiggle on the podium and a distinct lack of sobriety for not many pennies at all! On return to the Incubation Park (by what manner neither of us have the faintest), I was so disorientated, in response to Owen's assertions there is a lake near my apartment, I stormed, "there is definitely no pond here!" and then promptly fell in it. The hero jumped in after me whilst I flailed around in about half a metre of water. Not that I'm dramatic when drunk or anything...

So, what are the tourist activities which one is to revel in? We hop aboard the pea-green number 26 and clunk our way over the fly-overs that divide my residence with the rest of Chengdu civilization. Evicted into Tianfu Square, we’re greeted with the celestial wave of the Chairman Mao, whose figure towers from on high. He is the colour of the first page in a note book – unadulterated and seductively white. But he blurs out of focus, for he does not much contrast with the skies of ‘Du. They continue to laboriously harbour the foggy clouds that squat heavily in the troposphere, creating a 2-Dimensional water-colour of the city’s architecture. Onto the “People’s Park’ for a jaunt around the lake (no, I didn’t have a dip in this one) to watch the Chinese at play, peddling about in boats and slurping on yogurt. Yes, they are a big fan of yogurt, but not of other dairy products, which is interesting. Owen and I absent-mindedly nibble on an oven baked sweet potato from a street vendor as two little girls lace our sitting place with rainbow flaunting bubbles. It is almost like sitting in Stanley Park (Blackpool, for those unfortunates who have never fed the ducks there). Except everyone is Chinese instead of Sand-grownian. Daring as we are, we pay 8RMB to descend into the bowels of the park within which a horror-ride awaits us. The Indian Jones Picaro figure beside me, that claims he desperately desires to be forced to stitch his own wounds out in some wilderness and live to tell the tale, excretes a careering car tyre screech and leaps behind me as I fumble about in the dusty darkness. A wizened rubber mask attached to some fabric adorned stick pops up from the abyss and an echoic cackle resonates around the tomb. We yelp, and then are ashamed at the fact we actually allowed a pit of fear to percolate in our guts and then to make it public though a pathetic squeak and squeal whilst beseeching the other to turn the next corner first. And this was no high-tech, atmospheric ghost tour, but a series of boxes which housed mechanized geriatric ghouls of varying mobility. The faint hearted would probably have asked for a refund. Like true English, the only solution was a cuppa, so we pulled up a crude bamboo seat and grabbed a green tea at the much famed Teahouse.

The Sichuan Giant Panda Sanctuary was a particular delight! It is home to over 30% of this bamboo-chomping endangered species. Little Roland fact**A giant panda may consume 12-38 kg of bamboo a day to meet its energy requirements.** But that may well be because there is hardly any nutritional value in this stuff, strong as it may be. The little baby pandas were sooo cute, and it was wicked super cool to watch these crazy carnivour–turn-herbivores killing time. A bear that actually has a bit of a badger look about its snout, that lounges around and no-one knows whether they’re male or female! And costs about 30quid to get a close-up and a stroke. Gave that one a miss.

Back in Chengdu city, we hit the ancient streets, sauntering down alleys around Renmin Zhonglu, we mooched around Wenshu Temple a monastery which dates back to the Tang dynasty, and is allegedly Chengdu's largest and best-preserved Buddhist temple. The highlight perhaps was the pond in the centre of the monastery that was saturated with terrapins!! They are cruising around, some giving other cheeky rides on their shells, or simply hanging out on one of the artfully placed rocks. I like their little feet. After working up a fierce hunger, and bamboo not really whetting our gourmand appetites, we head to a local Hotpot restaurant with a newly acquired nomad, Mark. The concept of the Sichuan hotpot is not to be undervalued. "Huo Guo", the actually translation being ‘fire-pot’ is the quintessential Sicuhan dish. A large steely bowl is set in the centre of a table upon a naked flame, inciting the dark myriad of spices to bubble and boil in the chili saturated soup. Once the soup is as hot as its ‘mingzi’, a variety of raw ingredients are added and then plucked out by nimble chop-stick manipulation once their cooked. Well, we had a great array of meats and ingredients that we chose to added to our cauldron of fire, such as mushrooms, potato, tofu, cucumber, ducks’ heart, thinly cut beef (Ge rou) and sticks of chicken (Ya rou), but perhaps the most exotic was the pig brains. Yes, the cute and compact pink spongy matter was cradled delicately in a ladle so as not to crush it whilst plundering the pot for other delightful morsels. Unfortunately, there were no fava beans, nor a nice Energon kiante to accompany my slice of convoluted cortex.

Exhausting the ‘Du, the rapscallion and I aboard the 16 hour choo-choo that is chartered for Xi’an, Shaanxi Province. One of the Four Great Ancient Capitals of China, it has a history of over 5000 years, and was capital during the Qin, Han, the Sui and Tang dynasties. Another little fact for you historians, is that Xi’an is the eastern terminus of the famous Silk Road, and that’s perhaps why there is a lively and interesting Islamic quarter within the ancient city walls, which are host to an excellent array of street snacks of breads and meats, with crazy deep-fried sweets and gooey rice cube soup.

But it is not for the food that we journeyed to this city which boasts such a colossus legacy. Ejected from our hard-seat of too many hours into the hustle of the train station, we grab a cab and find solace and showers in our hostel. An afternoon of exploration leads us to the Bell and Drum Towers in the centre of the ancient city, juxtaposed with the surrounding onslaught of modern commercialism. The ‘Bucks and the Mc’s fluorescents are awkwardly vulgar against the glow of the ancient gold and red architecture. But then, this is China and it is this fusion of stark clashes between the ancient and the modern that characterises many cities. We sample the street food of deep fried bread with chili and lettuce (??!! A significant first of fresh salad style foodstuff for me in China!) and hit the hay for sleeping in preparation for our Big Xi'an DAY.

Yes, to the much famed Terracotta Warriors went we. Based an hour from the city, we tumbled out of the bus to be greeted by a market of polished pomegranates, pregnant with sweet seeds and proffered by the tens of local sellers from their wicker baskets. But the fruits of contemporary local labour was not our port of call. Into the museum and anticipation gurgled in our tums, for the 7000 Army figures had lay underground for over 2000 years. The site is divided into three separate pits, Vaults 1, 2 and 3. They found that the first discovered and largest vault is Pit 1, where over 6000 pieces reside, and are thought to be the army infantry. The other two pits play host to the cavalry and main officer units…yes, horses and everything! Incredible are the range of hairstyles, facial expressions and stances that this army exhibit. Incredibly, this whole ancient masterpiece was only discovered in 1974 by farmers, whose well pulled up fragments of the warriors!! This entire construct is a form of funerary art which was buried with first dynasty emperor, Qin Shi Huang in 210BC. Similar to the Egyptian concept of burial ritual, the purpose of the army is to assist Emperor Qin lead another empire in the afterlife.

National holidays are but only a week long and we were eager to squeeze as much Shaanxi shenanigans as we could. So back to the city, and then into a bus queue for our next destination, Hua Shan, (华山). This holy mountain stands at 7, 218ft high (2200m) and is one of five in China that is held sacred by Taoists. Well, we certainly were privy to the pilgrimage of Hua Shan! Adopted by a group of Xi’an university students, the leader introduced himself as “I am Candy – sweet like candy.” I stifled a giggle as Owen jabbed my rocking ribs. We were to follow them up this trail to the East Peak, the peak which is to reveal the most spectacular sunrise. Yet, we were not alone. Apparently over 2000 Chinese were to be accompanying us on the ascent. This, I have to really, emphatically point out was the oddest mountain climb I’ve ever encountered. Firstly, it was at night. Yes, an all nighter on the mountain with a couple of bread buns in our bag for sustenance. Like many things in China, it isn’t what one would expect. There are stairs all the way up to the pinnacles, lanes and paths that are flanked by ‘shops’ providing noodles and cucumber and water and eggs and respite from the grueling stairwell.

It was incredible! The path was saturated with people, and sometimes a bottleneck would form at narrower points on the trail. Young people such as ourselves scooted about in jeans and Converse, whilst little old men and ladies heaved themselves peak-bound upon their walking sticks. I was knackered, to be honest. It revealed how very unfit I had become since the mauling of my ankle and head, and my lack of agility was shamed by the tenacity of these Chinese elders. The path thickens with sleeping bodies and even tents the later it becomes and the higher we climb. A stab of jealousy slashed at me as I see people huddled in large army jackets nursing cups of tea as we surge on. True miner style with a flashlight on my head, we bumbled up and up and up for over seven hours, only to find that the peak which we wish to clamber up..is full! It is 4am and the twinkling lights of the mountain are blaring before my fatigued eyes. And it is getting bloomin’ cold! A Chinese proverb goes as follows: “here is one path and one path only that goes to the summit of Hua Shan.” And yes, the underlying suggestion that it is hard work is definitely the case.

So on we plod, to the South Peak, where we will sneak ourselves past some authority in order to find a suitable stony seat for the spectacle we came to view. We wait. The theme tune of the Guinness advert spins in my aching mind…dun dun dun de dun dun. Is it going to be worth all this effort and exposure to potential contraction of pneumonia?? The skyline begins to glow at around 6.11am, whilst I dance about in a concerted effort to remain awake and obtain some feeling in my chilled digits. A sunrise has never been so eagerly awaited and we fawn over each extra degree of light that emanates from the horizon. A cheer resounds across the five peaks of Hua Shan as the yokey orb peeps out from behind its rocky shell. The sky slowly metamorphoses from an inky cape intricately embroidered with Swarovski Crystals into a myriad of purples flecked with fiery hues, gradually intensifying in such richness and strength,that even the most exquisite silks of Imperial Qipau could never recreate the kaleidoscope of colours that adorn the mountain peaks. The optical spectaculum crescendos at 6.44am. The plight of capturing the point at which the sun rising is at its most esthetically perfect by digital camera leaves me in awe of Monet’s avid switching of canvas whilst attempting to recreate such natural beauty with paints. He summarized his aim of painting in 1926: "I have always had a horror of theories, my only virtue is to have painted directly in front of nature, while trying to depict the impressions made on me by the most fleeting effects" .

We pottered around the remaining peaks in the crisp morning light, checking out the amazing views, the ‘Sea of Clouds’ that nestled amongst the nature rock sculpture and tussled with the thousands of Chinese back down the mountain…well, half way, because then we cheated and took a cable car back to the lowlands!

Back to Xi’an and we are TIRED but satisfied! Crashing into my bunk bed, sleep suffocates me into unconsciousness almost instantaniously…and a celebratory ‘Great Wall’ rouge is the celebratory tipple of choice for the eve.

Which brings us to Saturday, our final day in the ancient capital. We spend it zipping around the top of the city wall upon a lovely set of wheels. It is the most complete city wall that has survived in China and was built during the Ming Dynasty, standing at 12 metres high. The top of the wall was quite wide, being 12-14m across…and still Owen managed to have a crash up there with a fellow cyclist!! I was pretty darn tired after speeding around the entire 13.7km of wall, so we decided to indulge in a nice cup of tea and some steamed dumplings as a reward.

And so, the train back to Chengdu. Owen was off to Beijing and then Mongolia, but ‘normality’ rather than ‘nomadity' was to be my lot. The train journey, however, was to impress on my mind that travelling can be an arduous task at times. For it was the end of my holidays and that of the entire population of China, so, needless to say, it was a distinctly busy train. Thank goodness I had a set reserved, even if it was to be shared with several others! Along my bench which seats three, was occupied by a mother, father and child, myself and another Chinese chappie, perched on the end, whilst many simply chilled out in the aisle. Going to the toilet was not an endeavour to be taken lightly, especially since I was in the middle of the carriage! The collective groan that sifted up through the smoking air when the food trolleys slugged through, dislodging inhabitants of the grimy floor always made me chuckle.

With child crying to my left and sunflower seed crunching to my right, the amazing patience and lack of need to entertainment in the Chinese simply astounded me. There was I, iPod, Phone, books and so forth, whilst others simply looked on. Sixteen hours and a mysteriously broken flip-flop later (I was asleep when it happened), we’re back in Chengdu…now to really see what living in China is like.

Chitty Chatty China. Sometimes.

2008-09-22T17:49:00.002+01:00

On the 24th August in crossed the frontier of China - there was a feeling of somewhat impending doom gurgling in my gut. THIS was going to be what travelling was going to be all about. Within half an hour, I'd unpacked my rucksack at immigration, revealed all my books and DVDs I had o my person, had my Lonely Planet guide to China confiscated due to mapping issues, and so, with a sickly and significantly ironic "welcome to China", I'd had a full expose to the Communist streak of China's system and robbed of my passport to understanding China, where the hell I should go and by saying what utterly decimated...yes, to travel without a travel guide.... guess someone did it once upon a time... (Hmm, the sweatiest eaters suddenly slobber into my stream of consciousness as they munch on the innards of some mystery fodder encapsulated in a banana leaf. Chloe, you would have a nervous breakdown. HA-HA! Quite poignant that the old iTunes chooses to mute the chomping with 'Consequence of Sound', by the lovely Regina Spektor!!). Not to fear, I am a seasoned traveller now and who needs a guidebook? Hustled myself some noodles and a bus ticket outta there, before being herded onto the relic of a bus with highly desirable beige upholstery and packed with perspiring parents, children and, erm, cargo ain't lookin' so comfortable either! Hmm... A disconcerting cluck resounds around the bus. I find it difficult to locate the source, as there are definitely no immediately cosy places for a chicken to reside. The clucking slowly descends into a pitiful dull crow or pain and resentment. Only then do the owners decide to life the heavy box off the basket in which several hens have been hanging out. Needless to say, they are the sprightliest poultry I've ever been audience to.

After several hours of breaking down and hen CPR, I finally managed to get up into the Chinese mountains of the Yunnan province, to Yuangyang, the home of beautifully swirling rice paddy fields and various ethnic minorities. Stumbled out the bus and into a guesthouse, and then found that I only actually had 3 Yuan. Yes, that is about 20pence, and even in China that doesn't get you very far!! Not to worry, I'll go utilise the ATM facilities. Alas, the Rural Bank of China isn't keen on the old Visa card. Oops. So apples it was for tea and a mooch around the town at the top of a mountain in the recesses of China, without another Westerner or English speaker to be seen. Raw maaaannn. Cool to check out the costume of the locals with their brightly coloured woven hairpieces and skirt embellishments, touting their wares by dull yellowy bulb light.

Bank says 'No' to any attempts of cashing travellers cheques, exchanging Vietnamese Dong or English quids. Bummer. Alors, if in doubt, go to the poshest hotel you can locate and look a bit vacant and lost until someone chimes, "you need help?" Yes, if worked...so some cash was obtained and rice paddy fields could be perused from the back of the bumpiest three-wheeler I've ever encountered, and all was well...next stop...a Chinese city.

Kunming looks excellent at 3.30am, pitch black and hardly any cash. But I managed to get myself to the good old Youth Hostel International (YHA), a chain of hostels that has proven to be my saviour in this land of incomprehensible script and unpronounceable syllables. Sleep, wash, mooch around. Invested in some Converse trainers for £2.80 and then was off to the tourism Mecca, Lejiang, knocking closer to the west of China, towards Tibet.

Here is a little exert from my tirade whilst on the bus to this lovely destination. Enjoy:

'The bus. My bed is too small. About 50cm wide and a few centimetres too short for my non-conformist body. Much like being in the bath, but you cannot fully submerge yourself in water. Stunted. I'm awake. Now I know this wakefulness isn't from needing the toilet. My senses frustrate me in their acuteness. So astute, so bloody observant and so expose me to the onslaught of stimuli that becomes so magnified in the dark; a 3am darkness. Fidgety and rustling. Why, for God's sakes, have we ceased the progress of our journey?? Why stationary?? The sound of the bloke arrogantly taking a slash galls me. No squatting, no fussing, no troublesome consideration of angles.

Musty. Used. The smell of my urchin bed. Then the searing tang of fleshy orange ricochets up my nostril before I've even breathed it in. What a luxury, that citrus scent, to have it invade me so unscrupulously, relinquishing my sniffing senses from the 'lived-iness' of my inadequate cocoon.

The man beside me snores. A short, almost becoming tremble soon descends into the grotesque rumbling that reverberates through my bed. It is lie a small nail that you continuously catch your foot on, as you always forget it is there until it sears through you again, inflicting its continual presence on you. The chorus begins, whilst my neighbour plays baritone to the onslaught of grunting and grating of air, struggling to escape the folds of alveolar; the asphyxiating oesophagus. Fooking snoring, I ask you?! It is nicely offset by the liquid cousin - phlegm. Hoicked up in a gravelling thrust, shoulders stagger forward I the blighted attempt to projectile the trapped mucus. Flapping in its wet, thick self, it won't leave. HOICK! The perpetrator (the chap to my right this time. Haven't I done well?) staggers off this god-forsaken vehicle to evict the offending gob. My chest heaves a little and my skin shimmers with revolt - but I'm not so squeamish as to actualise a hoick-spit-grob induced vomit. Oh no, my foot has gone dead. Oh, and now...A MASSIVE FART echoes around the shell of this tin can hellhole. Lovely times.'

Hehehehe - that give you a little taster of bus journeys in the land of China town?? Jealous? You know you are. Well, I know you're now green with some emotion, but not necessarily jealously. Arrive at Lejiang and a couple of other travellers also unload, off together we trot to the legendary 'Mama Naxi's guesthouse.' Mirjam, Owen and I scoot there and then pick up a French chappie on the way and check out the old town. Little bridges, cute Chinese architecture...and generally the biggest Chinese tourism venture we have yet to encounter...Chinese tourists EVERYWHERE. Very entertaining. Owen and I engaged in a spot of tea ceremony, sampling lots of famous teas at a fancy oak tea serving table and it was all very enlightening. 'Downey Pearl Tea' (white tea) was rather tasty, as was, 'Wang Zhong Wang' (King of King tea). All very cultural. Followed by brews of a different kind at the fantastically named bar, 'Sexy Tractor.'

Next stop - Tiger Leaping Gorge. A batch of us set off early the next morn to take on one of the deepest gorges in the world. It is 16km long and towers 3900m from the mighty Jinsha Jiang river. Yes, it was a mission, but the most beautiful and rewarding trek I think I have done. We covered much more than 16kms (probably about 32 over the 2 days) and there were some massively steep bits and massively knackered bits (the knees of my freebie trousers were wet with sweat. Sweaty knees = hardcore, duuudde). Claire, Aron (USofAs), Baptiste (Frenchie), Mirjam (Swiss, but lives in London), Owen and I (UK) absolutely dominated the first day and were rewarded with double rainbows, sheer drops and adventurer photo stances on jutting rocks, framed by vivid rainbows...and then the best beer at the quiet and tranquil guesthouse that looked out over the gorge, down the crashing, raging river below. Perfect. And the Converse trainers were still looking pretty clean! Impressive. The following morn awoke and headed off down to the crazy tiger rapids...bloody powerful I tell you...and then up the 'dangerous ladder' back up...and it has to be said, it was a bit bloody dodgy!! Then westward bound to another tiny town, Shangri La. Not in the guidebook, but getting nearly as close to Tibet as you can without actually venturing in. And it was beautiful. With almost a population of 80% Tibetans, we got a real insight into the culture - and the cold climate! I wore the most clothing there that I had in four and a half months of travelling! We scootched about the old town, and then stumbled across a Saturday night paaarrtttaaayyy in the central square! Local folksy style beats echoed around the town square and a spiral a people swirled around, clapping and swinging their hips in unison - a Tibetan line dance stylee! Mirjam and I hopped straight in there and were twirling our hands and weaving together the moves quickety quick quick! Great fun!

On the 'morrow, we sampled the delights of Yak hotpot! A yummy cauldron of veggies, potatoes, yak meat and tofu, simmering away in a soup was a taste sensation! Yummy, yummy...alas, the same could not be heralded for the yak-butter tea...an encounter with artery solidifying liquid, that tasted like lard, especially when cold. You have been warned. Then off on the bus to check out one of the oldest Buddhist monasteries in this district in China, where a nice monk placed a rope thingy round my neck and then bopped me on the head with a yellow sponge brick thing. Interesting. As was watching the young monks have a water fight and hit each other with sticks. I think this branch of Buddhism is a little different from that encountered earlier in Asia...maybe it is because it is closer to India...the imagery here was had a greater resemblance to that in Hindu temples...death and damnation and hideous looking gods in a multitude of gaudy colour - highly engaging!

Bye-byes all round, and off we went in our separate ways ( :( ), for now was to begin my week of intense travel across the stretch of China in order to get to Nanjing for Saturday night japes with my friend, Carrie. Sunday night - bus from Shangri La back to Kunming. Monday 8am arrive...leave for Chongching at 11am...arrive at 8am the following day (yippers, 21hours, baby!!), where I at least had a Chinese name knocked together for me - Lun Fu Ling. Something about flowers, apparently. Better than 'son of red headed man' that Flynn apparently means (or so Jord informed me with glee a few years ago). Missioned the Chongching (fastest growing city in china, apparently), and tinkered around the ancient town of Ciqikou, dating back to the Song Dynasty (998 AD - 1003 A.D). Checked out the 'Po Lun' temple, then wandered the back streets away from the Chinese holidaymakers, to stumble across the old folks playing card games and crazy domino/scrabble. Coooool. Then, the bus back to the centre of the city, before getting hopelessly lost in the rain in a labyrinth of houses up rickety streets. Not sure any other western person has jaunted through some f those places...interesting, to say the least!

Wednesday morn, 6am, I'm on the move again. A bus to get the boat down the famous 3 Gorges that weave their way across central China, in the Hunan province. I follow a lady in silver leggings and a little red flag as she shows me to my next bit of transport - yes, one of those people after sitting beside a mad old coot with funny eyes and bad breath, who insisted in chunnering at me in Chinese, despite my exclamations of 'ting bu tang' (I don’t understand). Shame, as it has been 3 days at this point since I have met another traveller. But, consumed with a book, aptly named and themed 'On the Road', by Jack Kerouac -An excellent novel that I would highly recommend...especially when travelling fervently across a large country – kept me highly engrossed. Well, the 3 Gorges were ok, but is was a bit misty as we sped along on the public hydrofoil (cheapest way to do it, our kid!) and again, like a forlorn lamb, I'm ousted from my pen and sheparded onto a bus in a town pretty far from my intended destination. "Wuhan?? I enquire, several times. A nod all round and on my bag is slung. Alas, no one is there to greet me...and my little slip of paper means crap-all from the hostel where I booked all the buses and boats and things in advance! Bugger. Give the old hostel a call and find out I was shoved on the wrong bus and subsequently missed the scheduled bus I was supposed to take. What-ho?? But again, a mystery appeared to take place and soon I was sat tucked up a snug as a giraffe in a beehive in a sleeper bus (yes, you know all about that now) and was on my way to Wuhan. Magic.

Wuhan was cool, despite the excessive amounts of rain! Arrived at the good old YHA at 00.15am, which ain't too bad and soon was tucked up in my thinny mattressed bed and awoke at 8.30am for a brekkie of steamed dumplings and a mission to find a bookstore that didn't sell books for 10quid a pop. Successful! With names such as Joyce and Dostoyevsky, for less than 6 GBP. Then stumbled into an old Taoist temple, where yings and yangs decorated the place, with the usual golds and reds and some menacing and sinister looking deities, their burning gaze drilling down upon you. A nice nun with a spot of Yingwhen (English) befriended me and became my little tour guide, which was fun! Then I zipped on down to the 'Golden Crane Tower' complex, and pottered in the realm of poetic inspiration and beauty, then scooched through the market and chomped some well-deserved noodles for the bargain price of 3 Yuan! Budget! That's the way I roooollllll. Then return to the hostel to grab the bag and, BAM, on the move again to Tunxi, Anhui province, a good 8 hours. Lovely.

So, arrive in Tunxi at 5am on Friday morning, 5th September. Quick nap and then to be the only westerner on a Chinese tour around the ancient surrounding villages of Tunxi. Xidi village and Hangcun village, both in the Huizhou style of the Ming and Qing dynasties. Beautifully scattered with budding art students, their umbrellas a frill around the south lake. Lunch was cool - a spicy cabbage/meat thing, vinegary egg crème thingy, tofu soup, plenty of greens, a fishy and plenty of rice!

And so...the next train is to Nanjing...which holds promise of chatting with an old friend, meeting new ones (of which can speak my language) and getting well and truly drunken. Despite looking utterly disgusting and feeling pretty crap from my mission across China, sangria and dancing went down 'Behind the Wall' and at 'Castle Bar', enough so that I awoke with a distinctly bad hangover. Carrie (a friend from my Rolls-Royce internship a couple of years ago), is teaching English there and so I got together with her entire crew of English teachers, from England, Ozzieland, but mainly, America. 'The Americans' as they are so termed, are hilarious! Bloody funny, I tell you what. And Sunday we all went adventuring around Nanjing Purple mountain, up in a cable car and then adventuring down the side of the mountain, sprawling ourselves across a big Buddha along the way! There was Becky and Matt (UK), Taylor and Eddie (USA), Stephen, Carrie and I (UK) all trooping the mountainside together. Super duper. Was so nice to natter and chatter away about stuff other than 'what is your name' and 'where are you from', following my several days muteness, to be sure, to be sure!! Only to return to the darkness of Carrie's apartment!! Ho-ho! The electricity had run out so a candle light eve was to be in store for us! Hurrah!

Monday was bicycle around Nanjing whilst Carrie Warrie cracked on with WORK. Hit the absolutely incredible Nanjing Holocaust Museum, which was massively interesting and impressive, if such adjectives can be applied to a memorial monument to a horrendous violation of every basic human right that can be conceived. Essentially, in 1937, Japan was working on the invasion of China. By early November, the Japanese army had essentially surrounded the city, and then began utter decimation of all life within the city walls in a mere three weeks. 300,000 people were killed on mass - piles of bodies lined the river, rising high into the horizon as soldiers had to burn their rotting carcasses as quickly as possible. 2,000 rapes occurred in these eternal three weeks, with girls being violated many times over, even as young as 10 years old. It was definitely a hell on Earth, perhaps some of the most bestial behaviour I have encountered on mass - two chaps were trailed for the greatest number of decapitations they could exercise. They faced execution once the travesty was taken to international court. What is perhaps most interesting is that no one knows about it. The international community are aware of the tragedies of the WWII Holocaust, things that are happening in Sudan, and even what happened under Pol Pot in Cambodia, but this has been almost omitted from the history books - some even still deny it happened in Japan and in some parts of China. Can definitely say Asia has emerged from some of the most catastrophic political regimes and wars in very recent history, and has emerged strong and optimistic, regardless of economic strength. Yet, the political agendas - the macro-structures and objectives of government - aren't the most liberal on certain counts. Perhaps it is reactionary considering the recent histories of these nations.

New Job Time!

Wednesday morning and I'm off on the Nanjing - Shanghai Express choochoooooooo....and Wham Bham! I'm checked into a nice little number in Fudan University hotel, with complimentary clippers, and free tea and a bath...but who cares when you have such a lovely bed all to yourself that’s not in a room with anyone else??? Lush! Nice hot shower, and within 20minutes, I've transformed from grubby traveller type with tortoise shell backpack to the European marketing representative for Click Netherfield LTD. Yes, yes, purchased from new threads from the H&M in Nanjing and I'm all clean and crisp. And having my virgin banquet lunch with the Professor of museology, my boss (John French), my fellow Chinese colleagues and, well, learning how to blag what my position is rather swiftly!! A lecture for the museum curators of museums from across China on the history of the museum (first one wasn't until mid 17th Century, don't you know) and an elaborate discussion on presentation of artefacts and design of exhibits and I feel a little more enlightened as to what the company I'm sat representing actually get up to. Yes, they are perhaps the world's best museum cabinet manufacturer and designers, with contracts in Dubai and the Guggenheim in Bilbao! And there is me sat not knowing a blinkin' sausage! Teehee!

That eve was a Shanghai night...off to the old town for a banquet with three of the curators who had attend the conference in the day, and I got my first expose to Chinese business negotiation...eating and drinking. GAMBAY!!! Yippers, the cry that would get even then most hardcore shot slurper feeling a little anxious! As the various arrays of Chinese delicacies emerge from the kitchen - including duck tongue! Yummy! Bit bony though - one cannot take a cheeky sip from one's beverage without someone else also doing so at the same time. A little raised glass and salute and down from of the Tsingtao beer goes down...and again...and again...and again. Round the table I go, inviting each chappie to drink to their health, to drink to the investment of their government allowance into our company, to drink because I can't actually speak and Chinese and its the only means of business relationship development I can easily communicate. GAMBAY! Then off to a rather swanky bar on The Bund, a super cool area along the river that looks out onto the Shanghai skyline and is home to a multitude of architecture and people. Sixth floor jazz bar, packed with expats, I slurp on a posh cocktail and am embedded in an obscure bunch of Chinese amongst the self-supposed cool of the city. Comic. Next day, another lecture in the afternoon and another banquet in the evening. But this time, this is a serious hosting event on Click's part. Around 50 museum curators from the conference have come along and are arranged around four large tables and are geared to having a GOOD TIME. Kick off - 5.30pm. By 7pm, I have been individually introduced to every single one of them, have a business card from the vast majority of them (which you receive with both hands and a little bow, so you know for future reference), have eaten some glutinous rice balls in white wine and a spot of crab, but mainly have been skipping around the table and playing 'you drink it, no you drink it' and 'but you have less in your glass than I have in mine. Here, have s top-up before we gambay'. Managed to not get absolutely sozzled, but was pinkie enough to find the industrial session of karaoke highly amusing as the faintly talented itched to get their clammy paws around the mic to croon to 1980s Chinese love songs - the old classics are the best, it seems. Ahh, they belted them out...and it’s only early! Oh-oh! No time to observe the warblers...for I'm being swept off my feet by the zealous wine-guzzler that was sat it my right at the table and I'm soon being whisked around the 'dance floor'. As my father would say, "thrown around the dance floor like a rag doll." He might be onto something there. But once one starts, they're all at it. The gender ratio was definitely favouring the male population, so much shuffling around for me - including with the Professor! Then out again onto the Bund for more Jazz and champagne cocktails, then Tim (the English designer guy that came to lecture) and I scooted off into the night and found some dodgy club to rave into until the early morn! Shanghai is cool!

Awoke the next morning at 12.10pm...I was supposed to checkout at noon! AGH! Feeling terrible, my things were thrown into my rucksack (not very effectively) and I scampered out of the hotel in search for a backpackers...what a come down! Ha-ha. Its Friday and I have the day off (already!!) but not really in any state to sight-see around the city, so I mooch into a coffee shop and have a caffeine/sugar fix, before taking on the challenge of the Subway...easy as pie to navigate compared to London Underground, so next stop, 'Nanjing Road', the Oxford Circus of Shanghai, in order to try and sort my big-footed self with some shiny new shoes...alas...size 6 appears to be the limit...what I am to do? I have a pair of Converse, a pair of 4-inch stilettos and some shoddy flip-flops. Not suitable for work, to be sure to be sure. EEK!

Saturday is sightseeing day in Shanghai and I mooch around the old town and try and see some Chinese garden action, but the city is large and my train is at 3pm, so I just potter and observe. Train back to Nanjing!!! Hurrah! And it is Saturday night and everyone is out and about...so, having only just pushed myself out of the quagmire of a horrendous hangover, I am to submerge myself deep into the boozy underworld of NJ with a whole crew of 'craaazzzzyyy Americans' whilst munching on Teppenyaki that is cooked right in front of us! Plenty of red vino and saki, and Carrie and I are up having a bash at cooking steak on the hot griddle. Woop! Then a rave up at 'Castle Bar', some confusion and alleged abuse in the local Mc Donald's (apparently I took someone else's meal...) and awake to have a stormer of a hangover. Hurrah! But, the weekend is young, for it is Autumn festival, the time of moon cake munching, family loving and full moon gazing. So, it off camping up the mountain for us! With our budget tents, dubious choice of camping fodder (onion, mushrooms, peppers and a potato. What an exotic barbeque skewer that would conjure up), and plenty of vino and beerage. Dynasty - or 'Die-nasty' as it has come to be known as - was the red vintage of choice. The Americans cracked on that they could rustle up a corking campfire, but, they were somewhat wanting in fire starting skills, so much so that a swimming capped Chinese ladette scootched herself over, kicked their incompetent asses outta the way and soon had a roaring blaze whipped into shape. Then something somewhat unnerving happened. Out of the pitch-black darkness, a sea of Chinese students with orbs of lights descended into our field. 45 students from Nanjing University floated like spectres under the yellowy light of suspended Baby Bell in the inky black sky.

Not to fear, we were all soon partying together, with our new friend being christened 'Geronimo', much to his confusion (he later, after being fed copious amounts of voddy, complained that his name was too difficult, as he couldn't pronounce it correctly. "Jjjeeerrraaaannniiimmmuuuuu?? It is very hard, my name."), and we joined the large seated circle on the grass, singing Oasis and 'Gin and Juice’, whilst the Chinas looked on, and basically crashed their talent show with a scrappy rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody', which really died a dead when we got to the 'durdurdurdurdurdada...' musical interlude: a bunch of boys got up and sang their own song. Hahahaha.

All was going well - a swim in the lake and a dance around the campfire and then I went for a little explore into the dark, dark, forest. A chuckle later, accompanied by an elaborate hand gesture, launched me into a back flip down into some sort of ravine...6ft down allegedly! Ooopsie!! Alors, a gigantic egg on my forehead and a badly sprained ankle, was the reason on Monday morning that my new jobbie colleagues got a texty saying "I've had an accident. I will not be able to fly to Chengdu this evening." And so, the unforeseen week in Nanjing begins! My tourist visa needs renewing, so a sentence in NJ begins and ensues until Tuesday after (wow - I actually blagged a visa extension - hurrah!). So, a temporary resident in NJ I become. And, a frequent visitor to the hospital, for on Monday night, my nose begins to omit a bloody snot. Not just your bog standard greeny snot, but good, brownie red mucus. Great stuff when you have cracked your nut good and proper from on high! My friend, Wade, accompanies me to NJ l'hopital, and is sprawled on the floor suffering the repercussions of his 5-day 'die-nasty' bender, whilst I'm getting my 12GBP CAT scan. I then get a text from Eddie, who has been put on a drip for 'a severe throat infection' and rumours of Jonathan enduring extensive bouts of vomiting, and also frequenting the local medical services. Ah, the aftermath of an innocent camping weekend. I'll assume that you'll be pleased to learn that my scan results did not harbour any signs of brain damage, and that a spat of 'microwave therapy' to the head and some anti-biotics was all I needed. Microwave therapy, may I add, consists of shorter waves than that of a microwave, and so, reassuringly, the doctor seemed to be under the impression it would not cook my addled grey matter any further than my previous antics may have done. A super duper black eye developed over the subsequent days, as did my hobbling limp. Turned a few heads, but with the cunning props of glasses and side-fringe, the wounds were somewhat concealed.

And so, a week passed and everyone has his or her war wounds from the previous weekend, and it is all pretty calm and quiet at 'Behind the Wall.' A few sangria's and some banter chat was all that was on the cards, with bike rides around the lake being the order of the day for Saturday. Football, vino and cards were Saturday night’s antics, and all would have gone smoothly and without a hiccup if it weren’t for that blasted McDonalds. The scene: a MaccyDees brown paper bag resides on the coffee table between three boozed girlies at 2am. Within is an unclaimed Quarter Pounder and fries. "Just a cheeky bite", one quips. "And maybe a chip," chimes the other. But, what-ho?? The entire thing has been devoured in the blink of an eye, the last morsel sitting on the wrapper in the hands of the perpetrators when the owner strides into the room. A strapping Scot's angered stare beams down onto the MaccyMunchers, and spits, under savagely heated breath, "Arrr youuuu teeelllin' meh, that I've been all t'way d'haarrreee for nuttthin'??!!" Under babbling apologies and offers to replace the stomached meaty patty, he stalks out, but merely shutting the door to behind him. "Click". The chink of the door punches the thick, gherkin laced air with a bout of guilt and desire for redemption. So off we went, scampering through the rain to get a new burger. Ooopsssie!! Well, who leaves their burger alone in such an environment?? A fool, to be sure. Hehehehe.

And so, my extended stay with the beautiful Carrie, and her new side-kick, Stephen 'Big Mac' McNally, a zany chappy from the lands of Sherwood Forest with a weakness for the very food his nickname more than suggests, draws to a close, for my visa is due to be ready tomorrow, and I may well get myself to my new apartment. It has been absolutely lovely to simply live somewhere for more than a few days. To not be continually on a mission to ones next destination, to weigh up if every attraction has been seen, captured and documented. To live in an alien country and feel at home.

But the next chapter is thought to begin, although I have yet to be informed of the flight I have a shadow of an impression I need to be getting tomorrow. Unexpected, unassuming, unorganised. The unknown: China.

Vietnam at high velocity!

2008-08-27T08:12:00.003+01:00

So, the land of conical hats (yes, they are worn, seriously...but don't look quite so appealing on the chubby faces of tourists who obviously find the ribbon craddling their chin(s) a little on the tight side), of war, oppression, haggling, taylors, lanterns and, yes, snakes. For eating, that is. First (intended stop), Hoi An. A beautifully quaint and picturesque (UNESCO hertiage) town, harking back the the French colonial era, with quiet streets, wooden facades and exuding history and style. AND, there are plenty of tailors on hand to whip you up a made-to-measure outfit in a couple of days, and even footwear if you so require! However, before we could embark on a mad clothing stitch-up, we were told by a nice Aussie lady to 'get some footwear' (She also made excellent 'fresh spring rolls!'), as neither of us were sporting flip-flops for Laos seemed to have devoured them somewhere along the way. And, the invalid was hobbling about with her fat foot post-rafting trauma, so we must have looked a sight. And the elephant foot was not reduing in size, so reluctantly, we ventured off to the local hospital to be inevitably ripped off, given things that were probably not needed and - the main objective - to obtain crutches. Yes, we had x-rays ($25, per shot), managed to duck the need for an ultra-sound (nope, no babies in THAT ankle!) and acquired a pair of fetching crutches. Grand total - $95. Thank goodness for travel insurance. Then good to go on the new clothes front!! Hurrah! Flipping through Vogue, the perfect winter coat revealed itself in the form of a Cavalli advert, yet mine was to be a beautiful blue wool mix with hot-pink lining inside to reflect the kooky puff sleeves! YUMMY! And a slinky, satin, royal blue blouse with neck tie, and a little chocloate silk dress with cream sash for me, whilst the elephant footed Klo sorted herself out with a rather swanky 3 piece (suit, not sofa). Oh, how we spolit ourselves. And how grand we felt to be pottering around a tailors in clothes that haven't been continually worn for the last 4 months and weren't bobbling. Extraordinary. Up early (4.30am!!) for a trip around the magnificant temple series, 'My Son', just outside of Hoi An. Utterly stunning, although minus Klo as she stayed in beddy-bys - isn't quite as keen oin the old temple mooching as I appear to be. Much of the main architecture was bombed in the war, but it was still interesting to tinker about and be the only English tourist amongst a sea of Europeans. Hoi An by night, however, is perhaps the one resaon one would sojourn into this little place. By the river, the restaurants and shops rainbow of lanterns flickers and dance upon the river top. They create the warmest ambiance that shrowds you - a comforting and special feeling hums within you. Or maybe that is just the lovely Dalat (southern Vietnam town) wine that we were supping. It never ceases to amaze me the power that little fairy lights in paper orbs have on people. Or on me at least. Needless to say, a couple of these oriental style lanterns are winging their way across the world along with my coat (and other treasures). Yep, another parcel, mummy! So hop-along and I are on the move again, this time to the historical and once politically integral city of Hue, north of Hoi An (and of Danang). We met a lovely couple from Isreal on the bus up, Alma and Allon, and so we became a little four for the night, venturing into the old town for some fodder. We managed to obtain the strangest meal in a while - a whole fish cooked in aloa vera leaves, and you take bits of the fish, some salad type stuff and chilli sauce (of course) and wrap it in your own DIY roll of rice paper. Fun, fiddly, but perhaps not to be repeated. Since discovered that this is 'Ca nuong trui', so there you go. Then, I peddled the cyclo back with the Vietnam chappy pretty much sat in Klo's lap! hahaha. Next day, we're up and out early, onto the top of Alma's hotel for a session of Yoga. Yes, under the small roof and surrounded by drying linen, the four of us did a spot of stretching and heavy breathing and all things yogi-esque. A lovely relaxing hour that invaribly did my muscles in for the next 4 days! hahaha. Followed by the tourist thang, of hiring bicycles (Well, Klo and I...aren't we fit and healthy and things??!!) and cycled our way to the famous Thien Mu Pagoda, founded in 1601, and apparently, on of the most iconic structures in Vietnam. Then back to the Old Town and Citadel (Kinh Thanh). It is an old impreial city, enclosed within high walls and a moat. Gorgeous and impressive, although much of it was bombed by the Americans in the war (more of that later). Time is of the essence, so 'tis to the capital we go - Hanoi. Alas, we are a day behind schedule, so the Chinese embassy is not open (bummer) and KloKlo isn't able to get that Chinese visa process under way. So instead, we potter off the the Ethnology museam which is filed with information about the diverse and extensive tribal people throughout Vietnam. Then we popped to the somewhat confusing War museam, and saw impressive old American B-52s (that we obviously shot down) and other military equipment...including medals and papers and things, but there was no clear explaination of the wars (of which there have been many in Vietnam). That is why the investment in a good guide to the history of Vietnam was in order - I felt ignorant of the atrocities and political strife that Vietnam has endured. So, the next read was 'A People's History of the Vietnam War', by Jonathan Neale (2001). Goodness me, this is a book that should be read by everyone, whether or not they plan to visit Vietnam. This book is excellent, although obviously bias to the 'Left' and somewhat radical politics (I have a feeling the author has Trotsky ideals) but nonetheless, it presents the wars in Vietnam (the French colonialism from 1858 to the 1950s) and the American invasion from 1965 to 1973 in a teleological manner - contextualises these wars from the perspective of the politics that were actaully going on the in the aggressor countries as well as the political struggles of the Vietnamese people. And some discussion of the repercussions of war for Amercia following the Vietnam failure. The Vietnam war was a utterly diabolical bloodbath for all parties, but espeically the Vietnamese. This book really made me understand the suffering these people have endured, and made me appreciate their generous and interested nature - still full of smiles despite what they have so recently escaped. And it made the tale of the old veteran we spoke to all the more weighted. He was awarded for shooting down 2 B-52s and had a big chunk missing out of his shoulder from a bullet. Read this book. So, to explore the back streets of Hanoi Old Town was truely cryptic - a labirynth of alleyways and back streets and unlabelled lanes. But, highly attractive all the same for its hussle and bussle after all the quiet towns we have since frequented. Klo had a stormer in the DVD shop (may well have a copy of every episode of every American sit-com/series I have ever known, and indeed, never heard of before), so just a few more pounds to add to her ever-growing luggage ("Its only three weeks!", she quips, as she hawls her new, pink luagge bag along too, fearing that her lanterns are going to face a life looking more like a pancake!). Halong Bay is the next port of call. Oh, for the days of package holidays and being sheparded around in a group, along with other groups, all pushing and shoving to get to their boat, or struggling to hear their guide because someone else is shouting about their bag not being were they thought they'd left it. Yes, the snobby aversion to mass tourism that one develops startled me as I felt myself riled by being but of on the many cattle, headed for the beautiful waters of Halong. but, soon we were all about the lovely wooden boat and being served up a banquet of fodder, and we were happy. Halong Bay (cited from Lonely Planet here) is composed of 3000 or more incredible islands which rise from the tranquil waters of the Gulf of Tonkin. The vegetation-covered islands are dotted with innumerable grottos, covered by the wind and the waves, and sailing through, it is magnificant and breath-taking. Utterly stunning natural wonder. The mind boggling thing is...how the bloody hell it managed to come into being! Legend has it, that a (large) dragon steamed through the mountains, carving out the sculptures of the landscape with its fomiddable tail and a spot of fire, no doubt. Geological masterpiece, to say the least. The only thing that slightly maimed it for me were the blinking 'Bearded Brigade'. What, what?? I hear you cry! Yes, this is a new species of male that we have encountered on our travels. Hairy, dirty and generally disgusting. But, this exquisite pair were particualrly revolting. BLACK feet. Like, dirt was ingrained in the soles, and there were sores under where their flip-flops lay, and they STANK. They are university boys, and homeless people have a better standard of hygine then there two hyineas (shut-up, Eddddd)! They stank! Honestly, STA travel ought to provide a 'how to stay clean on your travels' kit for boys - complete with a razor and foot scrubber. Mingers. The 'cruise', however, was wonderful. We explored caves around the bay, which was very excite, although there was a hint of Alton Towers with the coloured lighting. Was waiting for dracula to pop out at any moment. And then to Cat Ba, a habitable island in the centre of the stoney jigsaw, where we munched on far too much fodder (3 Jewish girls couldn't eat the seafood given...so we managed to truly embrace the notion of 'waste not, want not.' Fatties. The next day, off into the Cat Ba Nature Reserve, and got pretty soggy and was a bit scared when we realisde that flip-flops were perhaps not the most suitable footwear for scrambling up rocks! Being a hero, once we reached the sumit (very beautiful views), I decided to scale the highly dubious metal scafolding, feigning as a tower, just to see from a bit higher up. Would have been ok, but our guide asked if I got scared of heights, for a girl on a previous excursion had sobbed once she reached the top. I could see it in his face he didn't want a repeat performance on my part. But I got up and down - without my flip-flops on! Then, back to our ocean vessle, so cruised once more amongst the mysterious Halong rocky steeples. Sunny and lovely. Then a wee spot of kayaking as the sun went down. Deliciously stunning. How very romantic for Klo and I. Don't know how the floating villagers felt about it all (yes, there were people that appeared to live on little platforms that floated on the ocean, complete with little fires burning and smoking some big pipe. I'd be damned if this wasn't the inspiration for that crap movie, 'Waterworld'. No Costners though). Waking up on a boat in the ocean was a pretty cool thing too - especially since I shovelled my sorry ass out of bed at 6.45am to bask in the morning rays. Silence in the bay. Then breakfast, swiftly followed by a swim in the sea. Jumping from the roof of the boat (yet again, what a hero) I splashed into the turquoise waters, as happy as Larry (whoever he may be). Until, the hottest, searing pain whipped across my legs - laceration was that word that flashed through my mind to describe the paaaaain to myself. AGH!! What the hell??? So, not quite so serenly as previously, I scooted back to the boat, my leggies all a tingle (understatement OF the year), and was diagnosed with a serious bout of jelly-fish attack! Ouch. No more sitting in the sun for me for the time being!! Back to shore (the massive lumps on my legs having somewhat decreased in size and firey redness), and in the mini-bus back to the captial. Hurrah for Hanoi, for I quite like it. So, Klo stays in her beddy-bys whilst I trot off again to squeeze some more understanding out of Vietnam. Popped into the Ho Chi Minh Museum. This chap is basically a lovely fellow who wanted equality and a better land for the Vietnamese, and is much worshipped by them. 'Uncle Ho', no less. The museum was utterly gorgeous, somewhat of a cross between a historical relay through the wars of Vietnam and a intricate modern art museum - Picasso's creation of Guernica even had a poignant appearence. Then to act the part of the voyaer upon the waxy, embalmed corpse of Uncle Ho in his Mausoleum complex...eery, but entertaining to see so many Vietnamese queing up to pay respects. Echoed the experience of St.Peter's basillica in the Vatican. Then off to the Temple of Literature (Van Mieu), which was dedicated to Confucius in 1070, and was where pupils would study to become Mandarins. All very interesting. Oh, and sorted myself (and my mother) with new specs!! Since I dropped mine on the bathroom floor, and they were far beyond a 'Jack Duckworth' repair effort, I decided to check out the local optitions...lo and behold, a lovely pair of specs for a snip at 13 quid!! Usually about 300 in the good ol' U of the K!!! Hehehe. However, the creme de la creme, the absolute pinnicle of out time in Vietnam, nay, perhaps of travels, was a little trip out to the nearby town of La Mat. For eating…SNAKE!! Yippers, you read correctly, we were off to sample the delights of the scaly one. Pulling up to the standard motorbike, we were treated to a cup of green tea, before selecting the snakey which we were to have carved up and cooked into a variety of dishes. And what a lovely slippery fellow too! Over the bamboo bridge and onto the lake, we became the witnesses of a murder. The serpent was slain right before our very eyes!! Slit down its throat, the bile fro the gall bladder was siphoned off into one lass of rice wine, whilst the blood was squezzed into another, whilst the beating heart was prized out. Yummy! The heart, being a myotic muscle, can beat alone without any external aid. And it beat for a considerable amount of time after too! Well, until I ate it!! hahaha. Klo went a very chalky white and didn't speak to me for a bit. The blood-wine was ok, although the bile was a bit too bitter for our tastes. The snake was yummy, in all its forms too! Soup, sauteyed, fried, spring-rolled, wrapped in leaves and its fat used to cook our rice! Delicious! All the while we chatted to our lovely bike driving couple, the husband constantly topping himself up on our snakey vino...hehehe. And after the reptile banquet, we saw other things that they appear to enjoy cooking up - lizards, porqupines and yes...cat. Sorry aunty Neesie. It didn't look happy at all in its little cage, but do not fear, we haven't munch on cat crepes, as far was we know! Then for beers with the locals to finish it all off! Hurrah! And then, it came to the last day of Chloe and Flynn's travels together. Unable to obtain a visa for the land of China, due to the iron cage of bureacracy (yes, Weber definately had a point), Klo was heading south of 'Nam to work on her tan, whilst up into the highlands of Vietnam for Flynners. A final dinner of Pho (noodle soup) and hugs and kisses, and off we went on our seperate ways. Klo on a bus...and whilst I was waiting for the train, I ventured out to the Vietnemese water-puppet show! The funniest and cutist thing I have seen in ages! Chaps hide on boards behind a screen and little puppets slice about above the water, acting all sorts of mischief, like 'Catching foxes' or 'children playing in the water'. Ho, ho, ho. Still, :( Miss you Klo! So, Sapa was the destination of choice for me. A stunning little town in the highlands of Vietnam and the home of a number of ethnic minorities that can't be met anywhere else in the world! The train from Hanoi was the cheapest for a 12 hour journey I ever encountered...about 2 pounds 80...but that was for a distinct reason....my seat was that of a wooden bench, on a particularly dodgy train. Hurrah for independant, budget travel! And, I have proven my very own theory that I can pretty much sleep anywhere - except that numb feeling of paralysis that sometimes jolts you back into conciousness was a little too frequent for my liking. At least no one around me seemed to snore. How very courtious of them all. So, a sore ass, and a bumpy ride in a bus up from the train station to Sapa, a much need shower and then off out into the countryside to see some of these local village types. Cat Cat village was my port of call...and was gorgeously set in the depths of the valley. A lovely stroll on a sunny afternoon, to potter about the Hmong peoples, who wear very distinctive, colourful clothing, dyed using natural ingrediants (as I learnt in the Ethnology museum - thanks Hanoi). The following day, up early for the Saturday market where the various peoples of the local villages congregate for the Saturday Market. The streets of Sapa were awash with brightly coloured head-dresses, elaborate embrodiary and, the quick sell of the local wares. Sucker that I am, bought myself some beautiful throw and cushion cover and other tat...on now my rucksack is superbly weighty. And full. I took a bike out after investing in the local economy into the countryside to check some villages further out that weren't quite to decidedly formatted for tourists. Shh, Jon Collins. I went to the Lao Chai village, again home to the Hmong people, who are a fan of wearing navy blue, then to Ta Van, a village of Dzay people, who wear brightly coloured tartan blanket-style clothes on their heads, and finally the Ban Ho village, quite a few Km from Sapa, and here reside the Dzao minority. They were their hair up in a sprial and seem the quietest of the minorities. Then splish-splash, in I went into the waterfalls of the village, fully clothed in my summer dress (cotton for quick dry. Hurrah!). Really stunning countryside with the wind blowing in your hair and the sun on your back. Again, I trumpet the simple joys of sitting astride a motorbike and zipping through the valleys and stunning countryside. I want a bike!! So, quite the adventrous anthropologist! I only ate at the market for meals of 50p and chatted to the Hmong peeps - and was given the email for one so I can add her on Facebook! hahahahaha. Hyper-reality??!! JC?? Nope, they don't just crack their outfits for the tourists...I saw many pottering in the fields, heaving heavy wood and stitching up new clothes, even in places that tourists weren't likely to be watching. And then...China.

Loitering in Laos.

2008-08-16T17:45:00.003+01:00

Hut, bus, coach bed...hut. That was but one excellent series of nights sleeps that we have encountered and endured on our happenings in Laos! Due to our somewhat tightened schedule, the 'missioning' from one end of the country to another has been intense. Including sampling a wide range of sleeping arrangements (no - not with other people. In most cases).

Alas, I get ahead of my self. After my attempts at engaging with the Lay culture in the capital (yeah, yeah, made it to one temple....but I'd only been in the country 20 hours!), I was off on the bus up to Vang Vieng to join Klo and her band of Merry Mancunians for birthday booziness! Hmm...good wedge of t-totalness there, me thinks! Arrived there to find that Klo had not in fact responded to me coming to meet them all, and so sauntered into a little bar and munched on the much famed fresh spring rolls of Laos, and with 'Lap Lap', a minced beef 'salad' with plenty of spice. Yummy. A nice Israeli chappy kept me entertained until the Klo raised her feverish head to acknowledge my presence in the little town - 3 hours later. hahaha. Yes, so at 10pm on Tuesday, a tottered into a midden of a room awash with chocolate wrappers and general clues of gastronomical gorging. They had fallen victim to the local delicacies of 'magic shakes and pizza.' One shall not go into the gory details, but they still weren't as fresh as they may have wished on Wednesday morning for the much celebrated and anticipated 'tubing', Happy birthday Rachel! haha. I, mean while, was a smug b*stard, and was all excited post-detox.

For those at a loss at this casually mentioned activity, namely 'tubing', I shall enlighten you. I am aware that my varied audience will vary in its excitement and, erm, yeah.

Tubing - the sitting of oneself in a large, rubber inner tube that once lay snuggled and dry on the interior of a tractor. This over-sized, industrial rubber ring is sat in my its owner (woe betide he that loses it!) and floats down the muddy waters of the Nam Song river, stopping off at the many wooden bars that line the river down-stream. If the current whisks you past the bar - tough. Unless you successfully grab a bit of rope and are fished in by some nice type. Yes, the culmination of sitting in a rubber ring, drinking, leaping off zip-lines and rope swings into a fairly fast flowing river over the course of 6 hours or so is definitely the safest activity I have ever engaged in. HAHAHA. the first bar that we managed to squirm ourselves out of our tubes into was great - it had a massive rope swing that you had to scramble up a rickety wooden ladder to reach...and then pathetically, I screeched "this is really scary" as it swung me out significantly higher over the water than I had anticipated! The next bar and another beer, a spot of muddy volleyball was undertaken, followed by a quick slide down the zip-line into the river! Hurrah! By the time we had made it to the last bar (we managed to successfully float by 3 others as mooching down the middle seemed to be a good idea...), shooting off a massive swing with a nice chap from Leeds, at the SAME time and letting go at the highest point was not a bit daunting at all. Must be those power buckets. Comedy times. Impressed? We managed to last all night too!
The next day we ate burgers, and chocolate and eggs and EVERYTHING. Because we felt like crap. And looked it. And probably smelt it. Such attractive young ladettes. Complete with wife-beater shirt that holds testament to our japes in bright green (I am, shamefully, wearing it right now in Vietnam. Can take the girl out of Blackpool....).

Next stop, Luang Prabang, the former royal capital in northern Laos. Since Klo had managed to bag the last seat on the coach, I had a prime-time location of the seat right next to the driver! Excellent views of the staggering mountains of Laos, but no nodding off as I'd have fallen down the steps and out! Since we hadn't been blessed with a warm shower in about six weeks, we decided splurging and spending 3 and a half GBPs, which included: single beds that were adorned with crisp, white sheets that we actually wanted to sleep in, a mini-bar, a TV, air-conditioning AND hot water for a truly great shower. A tonic for the soul, to be sure! Temples a-plenty, and an array of French-era architecture that simply generated a chilled out and elegant ambiance. Ventured around Wat Xieng Thong based near the northern tip of the peninsula formed by the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers, and lost Klo (not the keenest admirer of temples compared to the temple fiend I appear to have evolved into), so tottered up the slopes of the 100m high Phu Si hill, and watched the sun fall into the lush green mountains surrounding Luang Prabang. Very tranquil indeed. And it was quite the chilled day we required as intense adventures lay in our stead the following day...

A two day adventure tour! Hurrah! Elephant riding to begin the day...and it was somewhat more intense of the old stomach muscles than anticipated when we saw the angles of the slopes these giants had to contend with! Eeek! Nearly sank straight down out of our bamboo throne! After feeding the blighters some yummy bananas, it was time that Klo, our guide, and I set off into the Laos terrain as intrepid hikers! In the blaring heat, we walked through vast open rice fields, enveloped between the immense mountains, then struggled our way through jungle vegetation and water-ways in the scorching heat of mid-day. Finally arrived in a small village of the Hmong people, one of the 84 ethnic minorities that reside throughout Laos. Their belief system is that of animism, and we had the privilege of meeting the village shaman, a chap who is believed to possess the ability to cure sickness and exorcise bad spirits from the sick who come for his aid (although there was a brown bottle of paracetamol loitering at the back of his medicine shelf...not that we doubt or anything...). The onward again until we reached the second village at where we would spend the night, the 'Khamu people'. But, we were successfully drenched by the rainy seasons, well, erm, rain, so were more than relieved to see our lovely bamboo hut! Yes, yes, the hut did not happen to have A/C, nor was there hot water in the trough with the bucket...but it was ace!! Yet, it was playing with the village children that totally mad it worthwhile...one minute I was tentatively trying to chatter with the little critters, next I was the pink pyjamed Pied Piper, with a entourage of many small persons imitating whatever obscure sound and body movement I could conjure up! hahaha. Fun, fun, fun. Next day, up early and a little bit more trekking for us, and then an afternoon on the river kayaking. Lush. But tiring....alas, no time for showers, as the bus was leaving to Vientiane at 6pm. So, it is a night bus...with a bed for us! Quite the luxury!

Passed a none eventful day in the capital, then again a night on the bus in a southerly direction for us. This time, not quite so luxurious as only a reclining chair...and the bones were definitely beginning to crave a nice, solid bed type thing...but to Pakse...and then down to Don Det, a small island which is part of the 'Four Thousand Island' chain. Gorgeous. And another hut. But it was for only 10 Kip a night...which ius 25pence! Wicked! AND, we had hammocks! A mooch around the paddy fields, and a day out on bicycles to see waterfalls (aka, rapids) and the beach (aka, muddy shore of the river) and all was swell. Then we met a right rabble that got us all started on various international stereotypes, and apparently, us good ol' brits, are down as describing everywhere as "dodgy, heaps of amazing brilliance!" Hmm, maybe I do say those words on occasion...So, James (posh boy who is on his gap year...'oh, reeeeaaalllllyyy', and Tait, an American boy living the hippy dream in Hawaii, both of which had a wicked sense of humour, so we all got along swell...especially after a spot of indulgence in the local spirit, 'Laos Laos'. Marvellous. And then we discovered cinnamon swirls on the celestial bakery (only one on the island) and sore heads were cured. Klo nearly died on a white water rafting extravaganza, whilst I adventured with the boys to pizza places of great promise, composed silly songs and drank milkshakes that should never have been imbibed. Hairy night. Scary morning. And then we disbanded like all merry men...for Klo and I...to the great land of 'Nam!

So, to Pakse for a bus to the border. Yikes! T'was not merely a bus, but a vechile of torture that we should never of boarded....a 12hour journey transpired to be that of 24hours....complete with deliveries of rice every half-hour along the way, getting rained on at 6am at the border crossing, Chloe having her purse stolen with her bank card, and on arrival at our final destination, discovered we were in fact in Danang, and not in Hue as first anticipated. But, survival is the key.

GOOD MORNING, VIETNAM!

Trapped in Cambodia....

2008-07-31T14:03:00.002+01:00

...but have finally escaped! Yes, yes, currently in the lovely confides of Laos (or Loase, as the Americans say) for the second day, after far too long in Cambodia.

Why is this? Due to the fact my passport was happily sitting on the desk of some bureaucratic crazed civil servant at the Chinese Embassy, it took nearly a full month to obtain a visa for China. Great. After all that, didn't even end up with a 3 month business visa, nor a 3 month tourist visa, but simply a 30 tourist visa. AGH! But, what little shenanigans did we get up to whilst waiting for the vehicle by which I can be internationally mobile...

Sihanoukville

Yes, the pink and glitter party was a stormer - as was my hangover. Basically, a crew of 11 of us managed to stagnate 11 days away in Snooky, punctuated with drunken nights, a couple of 'day trips out' and watching lots of DVDs. Very cultural, don't you think? Hannah, Rachel, Beth (3 girlies from Manchester), Georgie and Arran (a cute - engaged - couple from Norwich), Charlie and Michelle (an odd but lovely couple from London), Freddie and Sam (lovely boys from London) and Charlie (cap wearing chappie, also from London), and of course, Chloe and I, became the Monkey Republic 'Massive'. Oh yes, when there was noise in the bar - we were there. We managed to pick the choppiest day on the ocean to organise our 'group outting' to a little island off Snooky, 'Bamboo island.' The first 10 minutes were great, but as the boat rocked us all nearly overboard, and indeed, Chloe actually nearly went in, but unfortunately didn't and only obtained a stinker of a bruise on her arse, we realised that maybe it wasn't the best idea. Especially when the bottle of gin was handed round with the misnomer, 'its only water....'.

Another lovely day out was to the waterfall...we all munched on our pack lunch of sandwiches and crisps (very English), then minced around like little nymphs with flower garlands on our heads and soaked in the ambiance of the gushing waterfalls, despite being nearly washed away by the water flow!! EEK! A little bit of a Full Moon party went down at the 'legendary' Sessions, a shed on the beach but played good music, and we stormed 'Hannah's Castle' and had a lovely time singing 'Rule Brittania' from the top at the minions below (allegedly, I do not personally recall). A wickedly hairy game of 'Ring of Fire' well and truly killed us off another night, but it was all finished off in true Monkey style with another themed party - "Seaside". My god, there were many an amazing costume...from Jelly Fish (Georgie), Shark (Arran), Palm tree (Chloe) and of course, and incredible feat of engineering, car paint spray and fluffy bobbles (sea urchins...), and shells, I was a ship wreak!!! And that's not the only type of wreak I was by the end of the night...there was copious amounts of shaving foam and acrylic paint...on faces, feet, clothes, hair,..and somewhat more artistically, on the guy's guitar that he wanted accessorising! Hurrah! Think I may have ended up talking to a Buddha statue at the end of the night though....maybe I'll get to Nirvana yet.

THEN WE LEFT!! My goodness, it was the worst bus journey back to Phnom Pehn in our lives, still clad in our pyjamas, thank god we didn't look in the mirror. ROUGH. And since my camera was stolen in Snooky, a new one was in order, so a nice Nikon is now by my side. So, I mooched around Phnom Pehn to recapture some piccies, then hit the road to Battambang, a town in the North-East of Cambodia for the weekend, whilst Chloe and the girles made their way to Laos (I, of course, didn't have my passport. Hmm).

Battambang

Arrived to torrential rainfall, so looked truly trainspotter in my pink anorak and glasses. Get settled into a nice little guest house and then went off to explore the town...and found the most scrumptious cafe that sold the sweetest, warm, sticky Cinnamon swirl, ever, YUM. Awoke bright and early at 6am on Sunday morning, the day of Cambodian elections. Zipped through the countryside on the back of a moto, through the villages around Battambang, and it was great to see so many locals turn out to vote. Clambered up a giant hill to reach Phnom Sampeau, a temple crowning one of the only mountains in the area. It was converted into a torture chamber during the Khmer Rouge's reign, with people being pushed down into a cave, creating another mass grave of innocent people. Then up many, many stairs to Wat Banan, a temple known as 'mini - Angkor ', which was nice to get some pictures of, and gave amazing views of the surrounding lush green plains and rice paddies below. On the way back to town, my guide managed to give me a sneaky lesson on how to drive a motorbike...with gears!! It was brilliant, cruising through the villages, honking my little horn so the cows know I'm scooting past. Good driver apparently! Hurrah! New hobby...??? Then the afternoon was whiled away pottering around Battambang, exploring the local Wats and chattering away to the monk that live inside - mainly composed of English classes and punctuation correction!

Monday - travelling mission day. Back to Phnom Pehn at 6am...arrive at 1pm and am, at the DHL office collecting my passport, and at Vietnam Airlines by 1.30pm...booked at flight to Vientiane, Laos, and on the plane at 3.30pm. Laos at 5pm. Done. Next.

Oh wait - Vientiane appears to be completely full and I wander around in the rain for over an hour trying to find a bed. Soggy. Lovely. Met a nice chap from Haiti, who now lives in Jamaica, but it all got a bit surreal when he began to tell me he loved me, wanted to be his woman, oh no, wait, his wifey, and that we were destined to be together. Yeah. Right.

Next day, went to the biggest attraction in Vientiane with a couple of girls I met on my flash-packer flight to Laos, Pha That Luang, a large, golden temple. Lovely. Then hopped on the bus to Vang Viane to catch up with the ladies for tubing times...BRING IT ON!!!

Cambodian Capers

2008-07-19T11:49:00.002+01:00

Sweating. Profusely. Beer sweats. Meat sweats. Wearing of man-made fibres induced sweats. The beads that collect on the brow of both myself and Klobo (albeit that they are more copious in amount for Klomosexual. Sweaty bitch. haha), seem to be gathering in number. It is a little disturbing to wake in a puddle and breath in the refreshing stench of must which clings to your pink primark seahorse pyjamas. Or is that just me? No, definitely Chloe too.

Anyway, that is just a little observation I thought I would share. So, what adventures have the Kloster and I been getting up to? We last left you in Kratie. An interesting place. No cold milk for your tea, which is frustrating. Simply a town that's focal point was a market, that due to the rain had a murky, grey moat surrounding it that you had to wade through in order to get anything. And flip-flops flick water/mud/dirty oozy ming all up your legs. But, we decided that eating from the market was the true traveller style, so we selected some hubble bubble from some big silver pans and treated our self to a freshly cooked fish (head and tail and EVERYTHING). Tasty as you like, perched on a wall in the twilight, with the mozzies gnawing at our ankles.

And then we went to see the e Irrawaddy dolphins of the Mekong River. These are funny looking things that are super endangered (only about 80 or so knocking about in the river!). It was so lovely to just sit on the lake (obviously in a long boat) and dolphin spot - one even gave us a little wave! But what was equally as enjoyable and interesting was the motorbike ride to the river through the Cambodian villages. I've come to realise that my blogs perhaps do not truly describe the places that we are visiting and the cultures we are being exposed to, so here is a little 'Reflections on Cambodia' that I penned whilst on a 12 hour (bumpy and lacking leg-space) bus journey...(yes, yes, no sudden deviations to travel writer for me!):

Ít is very humbling to see children engulfed in happiness though simple pleasures: running along with an old tyre; playing the drums with a cluster of empty plastic petrol canisters; a stone to throw and catch. To have the liberty to tinker about naked, dancing about to the rhythms and rhymes in their own imagination. To exercise a naive curiosity and enthusiasm for the unknown and to engage with it through squeaking "goodbye", "hello", and "good day!" to you as you sail through their village on the back of a motorbike - the quintessential way to soak up the sights.
The village. It appears, from the wind whisked backseat of the tantalisingly liberating back seat of a motorbike, as well as from behind the restrictive pane of the public bus, that villages are composed of wooden houses, laid upon stilts in order to elevate their dry sanctuary from the clutches of the pools of rainy season's milk (hmm...getting a bit keen on the creative writing here). 'Shops', consisting of the packets of noodles, jars of sweets and copious amounts of a single form of fruit or vegetable sprinkle the stretch of road. Children, dogs, cows (or rather, buffalo) and chickens amble freely amongst the wooden frames. Perhaps the freshest, most organic fruit and veggies are those that we gorged on here, for this is an agrarian country, with over 80% of the population being farmers. Durian fruit, lychees, bananas, soft coconut, jack fruit, Cale and corn. And rice. Lots of rice. There is an abundance of food, on every street corner, at every market, at every turn. Silver pots of mysterious liquids, grills of fish, chicken, pork and beef. Perhaps this is very much the indulgence of a people who suffered such severe starvation under a cruel 'revolutionary' regime but only 30 years ago. And their faces are beautiful - the most elegant ad open of all those in SE Asia I have had the pleasure to see. Round and inquisitive, with a clear, soft skin, giving a deceiving impression of youthfulness in cases which may not hold for other nationalities. A willingness to break into a brilliant smile when invited by a flash of mutual pleasure from oneself.

So how was that? Sickly or insightful? Fancied cracking out some creative writing skills, but hope that they gave you some insight into what it is like here. If not, there are plenty of pictures on facebook!

And then further north we went to the east of Cambodia - Rattakiri province. Banlung City is the provincial capital of ratanakiri province in Cambodia 's mountainous northeastern corner. And we were there for elephants!! Hurrah! Yes, we got them, but it was not easy. Firstly, we again had first hand experience or the distinct lack of road Cambodia on occasion boasts. And sitting at the back of the bus was an error, for it is amazing how high you can fly outta your seat when you hit a particularly generous pot-hole in the road. And we broke down. Twice. It took hours and it rained. Continuously. And in Ban Lung there seems to be but a sea of rich, red earth, that in torrential downpours turns into a red lava that inhibits cars (and definitely buses) from getting to where they want to be. Even better when you are on the back of a motorbike and you suddenly realise how far over you are leaning....but i didn't fall off. Thank the Lord. And elephant riding in the jungle was AMAZING!! We trekked through rubber plantations and then zipped our way around several beautiful waterfalls and then swam in a gorgeous big lake - and it was sunny all afternoon! Hurrah!

Then we had to take on the 12 hour bus journey back and down to Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. 0 leg room and a big bag of lychees. Heaven, surely? But Phnom Penh was really cool - our guest house looked out onto a big lake that looked magical with the reflection of fairy lights dancing upon it. And we continued to be good travellers and walked lots along the waterfront and around the markets the first day, then missioned all the sights in one whole day. The most upsetting and sobering experience was visiting S-21. This was a school that was converted into a high-security prison during the Pol Pot, Khmer Rouge regime, and basically was a secret prison of torture and, invariably, death. It was sickening to walk through the prison cells that were once rooms of education and see the metal frames that had held so many innocent people whilst incomprehensible torture was inflicted on them. And each person - child, woman, man - had a photo taken on admittance to S-21. All these portraits were mounted on boards in other prison cells, and it was just simply so upsetting to see all the faces and know what was in store for them. If they did not perish within the confides of S-21, there were lorried out of Phnom Penh to the 'Killing Fields'. Mass graves were dug, sometimes by the victims themselves, before they are shot or hit on the skull. We went to the Killing fields after going around the prison, and a weird, eerie atmosphere resided there. More than 17,000 civilians were killed and buried in mass graves. This place is a chilling reminder of the brutalities of the genocidal Khmer Rouge regime. In the center of the area is a 17 story glass stupa which houses 8000 skulls exhumed from mass graves. Really tough experience. And then we went to the Royal Palace, which wasn't quite so emotionally difficult.

Party time, party time!! Yip, yip, yip - with Klo celebrating her 22nd year of gracing the planet, it was time to get to Sihanoukville, the seaside party place of Cambodia. I mean, after all that traveller education, a holiday by the seaside was well in order. Boozy banter as to be expected, but last night was particularly special. Klo's birthday party. After meeting Leroy in Malaysia, who happens to own the coolest guesthouse in Snooky, an order of a 'Pink and Glitter Party' was requested for Klo. And it was AMAZING!!!! Flyers, balloons and pink Sooooooooo much pink (and we mean, shocking pink) and copious amounts of glitter....a hardcore got really in the swing of things - babies (yes, girlies in nappies with pink bonnets), boys in pink hotpants and sporting pink plastic guitars, or having a bustle of flowers flowing behind you...or just being barbie with a dash of trannie (Klo and I)...and throw in a surprise chocolate brownie cake (sooo tasty) and a few pink cocktails and you are well away!!! Soooooooooo much fun!! But soooooo wasted! Hahaha! And there looks as though there has been a pink glitter bomb that has erupted across of shed of a room. I don't want to go back in there....

A home vs the road, and other issues...

2008-07-05T16:17:00.003+01:00

My cousin lives in Pattaya, our next stop after Bangkok. It would be rude not to pop by and grab a wee bit of free accommodation. And the opportunity to be in a house. Not a hostel, or a guest house or a scummy something between the two...but a house. A home. With a kettle so you can just make a lovely brew when you feel like it. And watch dvds and pick dog hairs from off your pyjama bottoms...and run to the corner shop at 2am in the middle of a thunder storm because you need biscuits to really crown this Nirvana. And it was so lovely to see my big cousin, Ashley, and successfully get him to speak to his grandma (albeit after several beers) and act as a covert spy on behalf of the rest of the family to which we belong. And his dog is funny.

Greeted by a grinning Ashley, a fairly strapping, tattooed (naturally - it is Thailand) and a little bit burnt lad, sat astride a small, mint Vesper was a joy to see. Especially when he took off his very fetching helmet to reveal ginger hair (not natural by any means)...hahahaha. An excellent experience with the local beauty salon, evidently. A good night out was to be had, beginning with an introduction to Ashley's bar, 'Çrocodile Bar', where a spot of whiskey was enjoyed, before we were whisked off to his friend's bar where the party of the night was taking place. Oh yes. Surreal is perhaps what some people would call it. Picture your/a local boozer. I mean the locals. The hardcore locals. Basic demographics being male, 50 years+, balding, tattoos and, well, a substantial gut. Captured your imagination? Sprinkle in several tiny, skinny, Thai ladies (yip, these are the chappies' ladies/wives), Thai karaoke (a very happy Klo) and more whisky. Bloody mental. Thank goodness I was hammered, as it all seemed highly amusing at the time. And it was. But slowly, as the next couple of days progressed (which we mainly spent sleeping post-Thailand mayhem), it dawned on us that we were in fact the only Caucasian, females of the age of early-twenties in the entire bloody place and that everyone else fitted the description as above. The sex capital of Thailand. I felt slowly that my heart and soul were corroding with simply being there. Honestly, it was fine. I sound dramatic, but we felt drained by the time we left. But. One thing can definitely be said. Having a Sunday roast was the happiest I think I have felt in ages. A carvery and LOADS of fresh veggies...and don't forget the gravy!! AND THEN, we munched our way through an enormous apple crumble and custard. Bare in mind that two of the guys who were eating with us couldn't finish their main meal! WE ARE PIE MUNCHERS!! And we went fishing too! That was fun fun fun! Klo and I caught a BIG FISH (10 Kilos apparently) all by ourselves!

Next stop - Cambodia. People had mentioned that the journey to Siem Reap in Cambodia from Thailand was hell. Didn't feel like that to me as we cruised in our nice bus from Bangkok to the border...but then we got to the border. And it is called rainy season for a reason. SOAKED and wearing white linen trousers. Erroneous behaviour. At least I had my pink anorak (yep, I looked well fit). And then, once finally into Cambodia, in Poipot, we realised we were going to have to get a car to drive us to Siem Reap. 5 hours away. So in we popped with a couple of lovely chappies - Markus from Germany and Christoph from Switzerland - into a car that had a nice big crack down the wind screen, the front right tyre kept going flat, and not a lot of suspension. At least there was a good stereo. Shame there was no road to speak of. A river of mud as the rain lashed down ensured continual stops for the driver to give the headlamps a nice rinse off. But we arrived eventually. Just about.

Siem Reap is cool! And the Cambodian people are just lovely. They are so very sweet and friendly. Hmm. Cambodia appears to be somewhat different to the ol' Pattaya. Buzzing to be back on the backpackers trail, the first day we managed to potter around a market and buy some stupid trousers and a dress that has been described as; a poncho; a choir boy; interesting; pyjamas; ok for Cambodia but not for home...and so forth. I still wore it out that night....sporting my new hair cut - CAMBODIA STYLE! hehehe. $2 for a trim. Brilliant. I spit in your face, Toni & Guy. Mwahahahahahaha. So, with our new European buddies, we indulged in a spot of vino, before stepping out to the imaginatively named 'pub street' and basically, got a bit drunken. But I tried to get home with my friend...and we got lost...the tuktuk driver dropped us in the middle of no-where...so we had to stay in another guesthouse until the next day!! hahahaha. God I felt rough. But the reason people go to Siem Reap, is simply because it is the gateway to the monumental, Temples of Angkor. As the Lonely Planet articulately depicts, 'Angkor Wat is more than just an astounding architectural feat; it is the national symbol...it is a sumptuous blend of towers and sky, a magnificent spellbinding shrine to Vishnu with its captivating image replicated in the reflective lake below.' Sounds pretty impressive, eh? And there were lots of temples situated in the area around the main focal point, including the setting for Tomb Raider! After a good 5 hours tinkering about, it was definitely time for a brew!! And then a bottle of vino. Again. So what if we had to get up a 5.45am to catch our bus on time....yeah, feeling a little less than hot right now after 3 hours sleep and 9 hours of travelling. For we have made our way from West Cambodia to Central Cambodia. Kratie is in fact where we are. And we are trying to not eat chocolate and be good. Better get another brew down me then...

Aye Carumba!!! Sangsom Buckets a-hoy!!!

2008-06-26T10:37:00.001+01:00

Woooooosh!

Well, I tell you what! I blinkin' whirlwind of a fortnight I have had! Many an unexpected thing has happened, but it has been amazing - for a change.

So, Langkawi, Malaysia. Yippers, had amazing times with new peeps - namely Paula from Liverpool (but lived in Spain for the last 5 years) and Leeroy from Cambridge (lived in Cambodia for the last 5 years). And we were team 'Sigmoid Collectomy', respectfully named after my delightful tummy operation which we decided would be an excellent name for a rock band. HARDCORE MAN. We mooched about on the beach and caught some rays in the days and munched on local delicacies in the evening - although we did have to persuade the local Muslim restaurant that it was cool for us to drink our lovely bottle of wine in their restaurant....we bought our own glasses! Perhaps the most memorable outing was in fact on the Friday night, where we ventured out to the local Reggae bar', much to Lee's joy since he (allegedly) despises this class of music. But, after a few lovely crisp white vinos, I was soon hitting the dance floor with a circle of Malay rastas accompanying me! Hehehe. All the action was being avidly shot by our new friend, EK (lovely guy from Kuala Lumpa who was on his holidays), whilst we wiggled along with the locals. Comedy.

The next day, fully armed with extensive hangovers, the enthusiastic EK persuaded us that it would be a good idea to escape Pantai Cenang, and go on a nice big cable car to the top of Gunung Machincang. A three tier system, the cable car staggers the viewing of the gradually ever increasingly impressive views of the surrounding areas. It allowed a spectacular 360-degree panoramic view of the Langkawi islands as well as dramatic views of the deep chasms, overhangs cliff walls, isolated pinnacles and some caves. Wasn't so great for Lee (again) since he is mortally terrified of heights and had to take Valium or something to chill out!

Next stop is Geargetown, Penang. Sigmoid Collectomy landed and went straight to the delightful Mr.Ken's. Mr. Ken is indeed the most crazy Chinese chap I believe I have ever encountered. And he is a legend. He drove me around for hours trying to retrieve my passport (issues with Chinese visas - don't ask) and then proceeded to take me out on a day trip of the back of this rented motor-bike. Lovely times. We went to a beautiful temple, Wat Chaiya Mangkalaram (Thai:วัดชัยมังคลาราม), and is a Thai Buddhist temple in George Town, Penang, Malaysia, most notable for its Reclining Buddha statue. Then we ventured forth to his favourite place on the island, Titi Kerawang Waterfall. It was very nice, but I think what made it was his little dance in the water which I videoed, which includes him singing a song to our dear Paula who wasn't there (and was in fact having her handbag stolen at a restaurant at the time with all cards and passport in). Bless him.

And then it was time for me to go and rejoin my lovely ladies in the land of Thai and to crack on with some full moon party entertainment. They, however, actually managed to go the wrong way after leaving me in Malaysia and so had spent many a drunken night in Kho Samui with some lovely chaps we met in Singapore. After a gruelling 24hours of travel and broken sleep, I finally arrived on Kho Phangnan and found my lovelies on Ban Tai beach - and got straight on the beers. Well, we definitely started as we meant to go on.

FULL MOON PARTY! Comedy value. Got boozy on our beach and then sang all our way to Hat Rin (beach where the party takes place), and we were greeted by excessive amounts of Samsung buckets (yes, the rocket fuel concoction of Thai whiskey, coca-cola and THAI redbull), and my god, it knocks your proverbial hat off!! Recall finding a few of our buddies that we met in Bali, covered ourselves in glow-in-the-dark paint and danced the night away until the sunrise. And Klo was laughing. She laughed a lot. And so did Sami. Special shakes all the way, maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaann. So - been up for 24hours at this point as I wiggled on the sand as the sun rose....and then we went to find Colin and Adam, the guys who we met in Singy-pore and KloSam chilled with in Kho Samui and basically spent the day monged on the beach and drinking banana milkshake. DELICIOUS!! And then I realised I had been awake for 39 hours and it was time for bed.

As the 'tards didn't go to Kho Pi Pi the first time round, they decided that was to be their next destination. But being the well versed traveller that I am, I've already been and couldn't face the prospect of another 24 hours travelling...so Klo, Sami and Colin mooched off to the Pi Pi, whilst Adam and I headed for Kho Tao. It is sooooooo beautiful. Stayed on Sariee beach for the first couple of days...and got a quad bike to explore the island! And my goodness, I'm glad he didn't tell me that he'd never driven one before until AFTER we arrived at Mango Bay because those roads were more than rocky!! Snorkel, snorkel and then watched 'Knocked up' back at the beach...SO FUNNY! Then we scooched down to Chalok Baan Koa to do a spot of scuba scuba! Yippers, went back to Buddha View diving!!! Hurrah! However, I have never been out on such a rocky rocky boat. And Adam was sick. But the diving was nice. Some some wicked corals, but unfortunately, no shark.

Then came the journey from Hell. Returning back to mainland Thailand (Champhon) in order to be reunited with the ladies. A boat. Delayed. After already being rocked dans le matin for diving, and then two hours of rough sea. I was sick. In public. In a clear plastic bag. The shame. Followed by a 12 hour bus journey to Bangkok to arrive at 5am.

And then It was Sami's last couple of days. Sob. So we spent the entire time on Khao San road. Shopping. She didn't have any presents. But then we got drunk. And offered roles as extras in a Japanese movie!! So, as Sami Sami walked off down Khao San for the last time (I felt a stab of sadness to see her little back wander into the crowd, for it was the first time she was actually on her own), Klo, Colin and I headed off to a 5 Star hotel to shoot a movie! Nope, not that kind of movie....And it was wicked!! 1920s style hairdos and amazing dresses and make-up! The nicest we've looked the entire time travelling!!

Alors, a little bit longer in Thailand. But without our dear Sami. WE LOVE YOU SAMI!!! We'll miss you - and your random comments, your cheeky smile and, of course, Janet's phone calls.

The next chapter begins...

Dante's Divine comedy. And some.

2008-06-12T11:07:00.000+01:00

Yes, yes. the classical tale of heaven, hell and purgatory, but with a KloSamFlynn twist in Asia. Sweeeet.

Well, Jakarta was fine. Lovely. Had a Manchester United restaurant and I got my nose pierced. Lovely.

Then we landed in Purgatory. More affectionately known as Singapore. To those in the know, 'The Inn Crowd'. The coolest little hostel to grace this side of the hemisphere. Free Internet, dvd player, breakfast included and a lovely dorm full of lovely people...rearing to get on the lash. It was like coming home. And that is what it became. We successfully managed to squander 5 great travelling days doing precisely nothing (yes, that is when all those photos bombarded facebook). Lush. Sami and I even bought stilettos for the occasions of boozy times. Vodka in the dorm (illicitly, of course) and then minimal dollar spendage once out and about. And the bars were amazing. There was the reputable 'Clinic' which sported bar staff in nurse and doctor uniforms, and...wait for it...wait for it.....wheel chairs for, well, chairs!!! I got a wicked handbrake turn down on the old bugger, only to be told by a somewhat ruffled doorman, "the chair is not for fun." What?? A gold air sprayed chair with wheels not for fun?! haha. I wheeled off into the clinical horizon (and then was caught and ejected from said non-fun chair). But this is not all...our dear Sami indeed live up to her name of 'Sami the Saviour' by being the bearer of FREE STUFF! Basically, got into this club for free, chatted to the owner (of 1/3 of the bar) and gt free champers, vodka and vino for the rest of the night! Sami, we salute ya!! Flash packers are us!
Once we finally managed to tear ourselves from our lovely abode in Singapore (quite reluctantly, it must be said), it was to Kuala Lumpa, the capital of Malaysia for us. Again, a lovely city with some striking towers, but we'd seen enough of cities, so we moved on pretty sharpish. It also appeared to have a strange effect on our Sami. She decided to bless us with a lovely breakfast - of frosties and strawberry milk (surprisingly, she didn't find it went down that well). Sami moment.

Hell.
Well, not really. Mostly for Sami. And Teresa (lovely Hong Kong girl that joined us). For now we we in Taman Negara. The oldest rain forest in Asia. Claiming to possess elephants and tigers...but we found leeches and ants the size of your thumb. Lush. We decided to laugh in the face of organised fun (mainly cos it cost a blinkin' wedge) and so, Klo, Sami, Duke (dutch chappie) and Teresa (as above) and I caught a boat up into the rain forest and began our own trek, complete with vague map and vague notions of what jungle might be like. We eventually arrived at our hide (big hut on stilts) after being soaked by what is obviously the reason for the name, 'rainforest' (which was particularly unfortunate for Chloe, as she didn't have a water-proof. She didn't have her blanket in a plastic bag. But her main concern was keeping her sandwich dry. Excellent priorities). And that night....whilst rats tap-danced on the roof of the hide and tiger roared (nope, both Klo and I mistook the rumbling roar of the hide whilst people walked about to be a tiger. Oh dear.), we saw an ant eater come out into the open and munch - official name being Tapir. COOL. And saw fireflies buzzing about. The sound of the jungle too...blinkin' cool.

The next day, we battled through thick vegetation, I ripped my trousers to the crotch, 5 mintues after proclaiming the at her 1 Pound Indonesian trainers were the best investment ever, Klo found that they had actually disintegrated and that her sandwich bag wasn't going to keep the leeches out. And there were LOADS of leeches. Got a good picture of a juicy one on my leg. Yummy.

Heaven.
After taking on the trials and tribulations thrown at us by the jungle, we felt that we were in need of a little holiday. Quite right. Tough work this travelling bloody malarkey. So to the Perhantian Islands we went. Long beach - paradise. Crystal clear waters, white sands and cheap accommodation and food. Lush. And the tans had pretty much vanished so a good top up was in order. Then some diving. SO CHEAP! Yes, yes, I managed to actually swim next to a hawks bill turtle and saw a crazy tiger fish, and then on the second dive, all three of us saw a ship wreck! A Vietnamese fishing boat covering in lovely corals, and we saw sea serpents and poisonous rock fish. Uber cool!

But heaven was fleeting, and after only 2 days in paradise, due to a short time schedule, we headed to Kota Baru. Checked out some Malaysian culture, and I tried out Malay drums and top spinning and was enchanted by 'The art of self-defence', whilst Sami and Klo were on their way to Thailand. Yes, we are no longer together. But only for a little while, do not despair. They are off to Kho Pi Pi and since I have already graced those paradise lands (yeah, yeah, showing off), I decided to head west to the island of Langkawi by myself. Terrorised by young children on the bus for 9 hours, I escaped onto the last ferry and arrived at Cenang beach just in time for a much needed glass of Chardonnay and a tuna salad. Lush. Since then I've slept loads on the beach, been awoken by a) the LOUDEST snoring man I've ever heard (my bed shook. Honest). b) drunken lads after the football, and been island hopping around three of the 99 islands around Langkawi. And getting boozy with some lovely peeps ce soir on duty free Voddy. 5 quid for a litre bottle of Smirnoff.

Thank you very much.

Java Jaunts

2008-05-26T15:46:00.000+01:00

Another week, another medley of adventure. Eeee, getting better at this blog malarkey, eh?
Well, we come bearing tales of Java, a larger island to the west of Bali. We had been warned of the Javanese people…how they were bad and ‘of different decent’ to the Balinese. Cynical as I was, once that many people tell you to ‘be careful’, you really think may have to…but then again, people say that about the Welsh (no offence, Jeff), and they are actually alright. For you see, Bali is predominately Hindu, whereas good ol’ Java is mainly Muslim. Basic racism slowly becomes apparent. Everyone here (as I suspected) as lovely and simply as inquisitive and friendly as those in Bali – it is just many women wear headscarf’s, whereas in Bali, there were offerings of flowers in bamboo leaf bowls scattered all over the show in Bali. It is true, Bali was perhaps a bit more magical with its impromptu temples sprouting out everywhere (even being converted into tourist accommodation), but there aren’t any stray dogs desperately trying to inflict rabies on us in Java. Just the call to prayer at 4.30am.

Prodolingo – a day there was interesting. Waiting for the night bus to Jogjakarta, we went for an explore around this little town in East Java – and we experienced what it may well be like to be minor celebrities! Quietly, entering into the town square, we see some sort of Scout event with several schools standing to attention whilst the local governor gave a particularly stern sounding speech (local and general elections are coming up in Indonesia next month). But, slowly, we became the centre of attention for about 40 or more children (difficult to discern whilst teetering on a kerb), and slowly, they surrounded and pounced. Hundreds of beady eyes came ever closer, then ‘click, click, click’ of cameras began…cute but relentless, to say the least! Felt a bit weird having so many people staring at you…and then they all got load and excited, so Klo, Sami and I were escorted out of the park!!

Then to Yogya – the cultural heart of Java, according to the bible (Lonely Planet, obviously). Four days to play and investigate the famous temples around and about. But Sami began to feel somewhat under the weather. Being the good friends we are, Klo and I recommended a day in bed for Sami and a day out on a bejak (bicycle powered carriage – poor bloke) around the city for us. We saw a puppet maker, cruised about the city and saw batik, the local print of Indonesia where wax is placed on the fabric, thus protecting the pattern from the dye it is then dipped into, viewed the government exhibition of student art from across Indonesia, and treated ourselves to a piece of batik artwork – mine pictures Rama and Sinta, the Indonesian equivalent of Romeo and Juliet, but a tale of a Hindu decent, as opposed to the Bard. Then munched on the fine foods of a street vendor with some people we had picked up on the way….and ate the most delicious deep fried doughnut thingy, ever! Yum!

Alas, on our return, the Sami-Salts was looking to hot. Turns out, flowing an injection in the arse and a thorough going-over by the doctor, that she had Gastroenteritis. Poor sod. Must have been that cheese sandwich! Haha. A course of anti-biotics and tedium was prescribed. Next day, I went to Prambanana, a massive Hindu temple top the east of Yogya. Got the public bus with the locals (3000RP – about 20p) for an hour bus out to the temples. And they were stunning. Amazing to just potter about and absorb the atmosphere of such striking architecture. And I looked like a hippy with fisherman trousers, white cotton top (think Enrique Iglesias), beads and bangles. Groovy baby.
Sunday. Sami is feeling significantly better, s a trip out to Yogya palace to see a classical dance was on the cards. And we were accosted by several members of the public for a photo with them (more celebrity moments – they begin to grate after a while). Then a water castle, purchasing of leather bags, getting my nose pierced and some ice-cream from McDonalds (it cannot be helped after a while. Only my second one, mind!). Lovely times and lovely day.
Last day in Yogya today and we went out to Borobudur temple – the Buddhist temple that has been acknowledged as a World Heritage site, and built around 650-850 AD. Massively impressive and beautiful….see what Cambodia has to challenge it!! Got chatting to a female monk whilst knocking about the symbolic nirvana point and she is one of 6 Buddhist monks in Thailand, and there are only 2 in Indonesia! She is leading the monk revolution for more lady monks! Hurrah! Hehehe. The Ozzie guy was obviously just taking his trip to the temple a bit serious – he donned an orange robe and EVERYTHING! Hahahaha – good one Klo, he has actually been a monk for 14 years! Hahahahahahaha.

Off to Jakarta now…then Singapore on Wednesday! WE LOVE INDONESIA. Although I could kill for a bowl of cereal.

Scuba, cycling, dancing, trekking - action kids

2008-05-21T14:07:00.001+01:00

Hey, hey, hey!

Another attempt at uploading photos onto Facebook, another blog. Works beautifully.
Alors, been In Indonesia for 2 weeks now and we LOVE IT! Arrived at Sanur (South-East coast of Bali), to catch the notorious boat across to the little island of Nusa Lambongan. Alas, we had missed the early morning public boat so we thought we would sit tight in Sanur for a day in the sun...and it so happened to be a massive public holiday! Hundreds upon hundreds of Balinese descended upon the beach. Oblivious whilst armed with iPod and novels, we slowing began to realise we were in fact the only white ladies on the beach amongst a sea of locals. COMEDY! Must admit, we were the subject of a few gazes! So, highly conspicuous, we nabbed ourselves some local delicacies, including grilled corn on the cob, spring rolls with peanut sauce and a strange bowl of chicken balls and noodle soup. Interesting to say the least.

Early the next morn, we set sail on the public boat to Nusa Lambongan, scuba diving and er....well, not much else. The blinking place didn't even have an ATM so we had to make our Rupiah last! Pineapple for brekkie?? And the diving was SPECTACULAR. Despite the fact our dive instructor was a bit miserable, we had fun....although Klo and Sami weren't instilled with massive amounts of confidence before sitting their PADI Openwater test...at least there were cute puppies to keep them entertained. I am now apparently 'Advanced'. Ha. Hmm. Did an amazing 27/8m dive (anything more than 18m down is classed as a deep dive)...and we saw a turtle. Elegant and graceful. Brilliant. But that is not to undermine the magical, underwater world, laced with traffic of thousands of fish. Scribbled filefish, Crosshatch triggerfish, Blacktipped soldierfish, Imperial Angelfish, to name but a minute few. The corals were rich and varied, and on the last couple of dives we went down a 'wall'. Basically, like a mountain side, but that drops down deep into the ocean and is composed of corals, big and small, red and pink and orange, all interlaced with rainbows of fish and marine life. Also did a 'drift dive' along this stretch - a dive which you basically let the current pull you along - and we ended up 1.5km from where we started in 30mins!! Crazzzeee.

I also took myself on a little bicycle ride around the island as the other beauties lay asleep in our hut. Observed the seaweed farmers, women weaving palm leaves for the offerings that are made everyday, the bamboo catamarans that line the shore and the intricate architecture of the temples. Tired after though - blinkin' hilly!

After all this hard work and with a distinct lack of cash...we ventured out with our new friends, Jack, Celena and Co. and got on the Bintang beer. Well, we had 1 and 1/2 between us. But, wait...2 truely bogan Ozzie boys came to save the day and subsequently shouted all our Bintangs and we were away! I think Sami even got a free egg toastie. FREE STUFF! hahahahahaha
Didn't make the boat journey any the better at 8 the next morn (which, of course, we nearly missed). The make home to Kuta, then land of party and plenty. And I hibernated in preparatino for the night. All day in fact. A bought of Bali Belly, no less. Shh. Didn't happen to me. The on the lash that night (again) with money (a bit) and met with our Lambongan buddies...and threw ourselves in the pool at the club as the local cool kids looked on. Soggy, soggy, soggy! And filled up with Arak Attack (the local spirit...yummy).

Then up again. Early. Hungover.

And in a bus to Ubud - the cultural capital of Bali. And home to some rather striking jewellery too!! As we pottered around the market, a rather attractive looking Australian chap came over to us and asked how long we had been in Bali, and if we would like to appear on an Ozzie holiday program. Ha - sweaty, just about escaping the clutches of hangover and dazed by the sparkly things before us, I managed to blag that we possessed some form of knowledge about Bali and about bartering. Think it work. Emma and Laura - keep an eye out for our TV debut (well not mine. But enough said about that). Markets, shops, art galleries, wood carvings, chilling out, walking long walks around Ubud and the surrounding villages (well, for me. It rained and no-one else wanted to come), seeing the Elephant caves, eating really good Nasi Gerang and generally having a lovely time. Said good-bye to our chums, Harry and Rach (who we shall be reunited with in Singapore) and off to Java were we.

Arrived in Bondowoso yesterday and set off at 5am this very morning to hike up Kawah Ijen. An active volcano with a sulphur lake in its cone which glowed turquoise in the sunlight...when the clouds of sulphur were blown away from us. Cough Cough. That is, once we finally got to the top...a member of our party claimed to have Bali belly, but maybe she was just slower than the rest of us....I blame the apple. It was so crazy watching miners carrying 70kg (mum - that is over 3times the weight of my backpack) of solidified sulphur up out of the volcano crater and then all the 3km down the side of the mountain. Phew. We were tired just carrying ourselves! Amazing thing to see though - not so great to inhale. The our lovely guide decided to take us to the local University. Hmm. A bit like a run-down comprehensive with about a total of 50 books in the library. But what they lacked in equipment, the teenagers made-up for in staring and giggling. Hmm. Think Sam the Guide felt quite the pimp. At least he bought our dinner.

From Brisbane to Bali....One month in

2008-05-11T15:01:00.002+01:00

A month. A month has passed by in a snap. Bish bash bosh - done. Bloomin' mental, to be sure, to be sure.

Yippers - and what we have managed to see and do in that time!!
Well, got out little white asses into Brisbane airport on Thursday 18th April...to be greeted by little critters in pyjamas and red wigs that go by the name of Emmbob and Klobo! Hurrah! The team was reunited, with Walshy coming up the rear in her tank of a motor - on off to Mountain Tambourine for us (yes - a really place. No, didn't actually see a tambourine in action, except at a party). This is where the Drennan tribe reside...up at the blummin' top off a big mountain just near Coolangatta - this is all on the Gold Coast. And we SLEPT. My god...I slept real good after our 48 hour awake-a-thon!

Not wanting to waste a second, the us keen beans, Klo, Sami and I were off on the train back to Brisbane in order to get ourselves a nice little campervan. Lo and behold - 'Queenie'. An exquisite specimen of a van, adorned with Freddy and Co., with "I want to break free" splashed across the backdoor. Yes, we were on the great open road looking like a bunch of over zealous groupies who where still stuck in the 80s with our fluffy handcuffs a-dangling from the rear-view mirror.

After a somewhat random birthday party up at the mountain (theme -Draculas. Month - April). Successfully making small children cry by looking extremely deaded (yummy slit throats and herbal essences maketh one paranoid), we hit the road. We kidnapped Emma from 'The English Pub' and took her away on our road trip North. We crashed over at Shorncliffe (random village with a nice jetty) and then played a few days in Noosa - some 'yuppie' beach resort. Hmm...we didnt really do it yuppie style, since we crashed a hostel, got drunken on the notorious Goon (boxes of wine that are apparently 'made with the assistance of fish, eggs and nuts), got free drinks for weird golfing chappies and Simpoly Red (Mick was behind the bar), jumped into the swimming pool at 2 in the morn, and then staying in a room for free....well...we couldn't get a key so we blagged one off the manager! hurrah! Nice clean showers in the morning. Yummy. After all, there is now shower or toilet in Queenie the campervan!

Further north we went, up through to Tin Can Bay, Rainbow beach and Inskip point which was beautiful (Sunshine Coast), then back down south through Eumundi to see the famous markets (and filled up on the free food samples) to be back in Brisbane to make it to Straddy island for some camping shenanigans with Laura and her Ozzie boyfriend's buddies (Laura has been in Oz for 8 months...to return to England....????). Drunken times, surfing attempts and cooking curry were all part of the fun and games...including doing beer and Goon bongs (funnels). We also cruised around the island with 4 ladies in the back (illegally) and went to a fresh water lake. 'Hmm, think that we may need some more water," I observe. Sami retorts, "but Flynn, this is a fresh water lake! We should be fine." "Ahh", I respond, "Perhaps. But I think what they mean is that the water isn't salty. Not Evian." (This being one of the many classic Sami-isms.hehehehe).
Then we had to say bye-bye to Emma and Laura. Friends of mine since I was 7 years old - best friends in fact. And now they are having lovely lives in Ozzieland on the Gold Coast. MISS YOU GIRLIES!!!!!!!!!!

And then there were 3.

So, tis time to head South on our road trip to Sydney. We hit the zoo...and fed Kangaroos and held koalas!! On the way we cruised through Byron Bay, Lennox Head, cooked a stew in Yamaba (in the dark next to a forest. I am sure Dingos were close by!!), cleaned our teeth in a McDonalds, posed with the Big Banana in Coffs Harbour (yes, a giant Banana. Apparently 'big things' are now forms of artistic expression in Oz. Hmm. A fine statement), then got our asses to Newcastle. Yes. Newcastle - but not as you know it. Waking to a beautiful morn, a nice chap called Bob offered us a shower in his house. I don't think there was any cameras in the bathroom, but hey, might be on U-Tube as we speak. Don't bother looking..pervert. haha

Then we party party party timed in Newcastle City with some friends Rosie, Laura and Lisa made this time last year - Carina and her boyf which was ACE having a bed and shower and things....even if the pace was saturated with BOGANS!!! (OZZIE term for chavvie rough types...hahaha). But, before hitting the clubs we watched a pack of fine young gentleman doing some excellent squats and stretches by the waterside (absolutely bloody hilarious seeing 20 blocks swinging their hips and rolling about on the floor in unison!!). Yet, our boisterous cries caused us to be chastised by some older chaps, one of whom went by the name of Popeye, telling us to not put them off as they had a 'big game tomorrow.' "Oh, really?" we exclaimed! And then proceeded to blag free tickets to the Titans vs Newcastle Knights. Hurrah! Popeye sorted us right out!! TOOT TOOT!!! Made Friends with a bar manager so he shouted us vodka all night (yes, another night with only $5!! Queens of blag and FREE STUFF!!). however, whilst excessively hungover on Sunday, the pet doggie, Rockey, insisted on showing us his lipstick, as his lovely medic owner gave us graphic details of post-pregnancy rips, tears and GAPING HOLES. NICE. All a bit too vivid for our sensitive constitutions...so off we went to Sydney. Much more civilised.

However, after having our super duper healthy fish salad, we were convinced onto a 'party bus' after necking some red wine (my god...out of a bottle too!! How deep is it Sami??) and managed to get successfully WASTED for free. We actually had the cheek to only go out with $2 in our wallets. hhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaa. I love being a girl. Unlucky boys!! A funny and surprising night. teehee.

Then, after minimal sleepage, nearly puckage and more free stuff (thanks for the free lift to the airport, Isabel!) we were on our way to Bali.

And here I am. 5 days in Bali and we have successfully fully indulged in the Indonesian culture. We have had a juicy Big Mac, a deep pan pizza courtesy of Pizza Hut (complete with free ice-cream. Hint - sing happy birthday for a member of your party. Obviously it is not their birthday. This results in a range of delightful consequences, including instantaneous creation of blow-up poodles and head wear, ice-cream and rounds of applause and kisses from the locals. Ever so friendly).

However, to compensate, we saw an amazing Balinese dance at Ula Wata (Sun Dance), nearly got mugged by the temple monkeys, chomped on Barracuda, red snapper and king prawns on the beach in Terumin Bay (i think) and have only eaten Bali food today. YUM. AND IT IS SOOOO CHEAP. Had a manicure and massage for 2quid each. Lovely times. Off to another little island for scuba scuba tomorrow.

Crikey. I very much doubt you made it to the bottom of this, but if you did, well done. You have cost me a bloody fortune!! (Well, at least one meal. hehehe).

Signing off.....

The warm up

2008-04-10T16:56:00.001+01:00

A-ha!

Blackpool. The roots. The beginning. T'pool. Dead good.

A tourist town made up of being by the sea-side, sticks of rock and 'kiss-me-quick' hats. Of the Golden Mile, stag dos, fish & chips and piers. And the Tower. Obviously.

Not to be dismissed, but definately different from where I am off to, yet has made me who I am. Oi - its double dead good, like. Know what I mean? hehehe.

Alors, the journey begins...some words of wisdom:

“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware.”
Martin Buber (German Jewish biblical Translator, Philosopher and Interpreter. Master of German prose style. 1878-1965)

"The traveller was active; he went strenuously in search of people, of adventure, of experience. The tourist is passive; he expects interesting things to happen to him. He goes "sight-seeing."
Daniel J. Boorstin quotes (American social historian and educator, 1914)

"The soul of a journey is liberty, perfect liberty, to think, feel, do just as one pleases"
William Hazlitt quotes (British Writer, best known for his humanistic essays. 1778-1830)

Lets get cracking....